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Copyright, 1904, 6y 
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. 
Published, October, 1904 


ANDREA 





CHAPTER ONE 


The Child was going to die. The Child had 
to die. They both wished for it — now. 

Yes. Now they wished it. 

The Child wished for it also. 

It was as if the rooms round about were 
dying; as if the home became a cold, speech- 
less tomb, that was not concerned with life or 
the living. 

Only one place was inviolate, full of sun- 
shine, fair with flowers, and cheerful with 
constant laughter — the room where the Child 
lay, the little Andrea, their tall, grown-up 
daughter. 

She was such that all people loved her — all 
the people there in the city. 

From the market-women upon the market- 

[ 3 ] 


ANDREA 

place, where she used to buy the season’s 
fruit, there now came thick gray cornucopias 
full of yellow plums. 

“I want to smell, Musser, I want to smell,” 
she laughed; and smelled of the plums which 
she was forbidden to eat. 

From the big gardens round about in the 
city came dew-wet flowers every morning, 
and in the evening her boy and girl-friends 
called with budding branches and downy 
ferns which they brought from the woods, 
where never more Andrea would go. 

“Let me take them, Musser.” And the 
ferns and flowers were given into her hands 
and she became wet and laughed gleefully. 

Poor old women in the basements and poor 
maiden ladies in the Almshouse cut gerani- 
ums from their flower-pots and came with 
them. 

For flowers, that was the best they had. 

“ Musser, don’t forget to give them coffee,” 
cried Andrea, and she wanted to see them 
[ 4 ] 


ANDREA 

drink it; but the geraniums she crushed, as 
they did not smell of anything. 

“ Do you know what ? I have a dreadfully 
greedy nose; it can never be satisfied!” And 
then she and the mother laughed at that little 
nose, which was so delicate and small and 
did not look at all greedy. 

In a large jar stood rushes and cattails. 
They were brought up from the stream, where 
Andrea every evening used to row in her 
white boat, while she sang and shouted, so 
that it was heard far over the hills where the 
farmers lived ; or she lay flat on her stomach 
in the bottom of the boat and ate cold pan- 
cakes and drifted with the stream. 

She had the vanity to drag the oars to and 
from the boat herself. 

It was only when the moon shone that she 
did not go out on the stream. 

And every time she looked at the rushes, 
she thought that now this was all over for 
her. 


[ 5 ] 


ANDREA 


Under the ceiling, flew — stuck on pins — 
a multitude of butterflies. They had been 
brought from Brazil by a cousin, and she loved 
to have them around her for the sake of their 
beautiful colour, which, though she could no 
longer see, she remembered well enough; 
and then for all the imaginings that followed 
with the thoughts of owning something “from 
deep, deep in the big primeval forests !” 

It grieved her that they were stuck on 
pins ; they should rather have been alive, she 
thought. 

In the centre of the ceiling hung a little 
Cupid finely carved in white wood. It always 
flapped about and made the pierced butter- 
flies tremble. 

About these there had been a struggle. By 
the advice of the physician there had come 
a nurse with long hard hands and a heavy 
step. She demanded that the dusty finery 
be pulled down at once — it was out of place 
in a sick-room. 


[ 6 ] 


ANDREA 

Then Andrea had wept most bitterly and 
jumped out of bed. Before evening that 
strict lady was through in that home. 

The mother then nursed her child, and the 
butterflies flew under the ceiling. 

The bookcase was pitiably empty of books ; 
for when Andrea wanted new ones — she 
would not borrow, she wanted to own them 
— she sold the old, but the old were of little 
value because of the many dog-ears that 
marked “the lovely places.” 

In the bookcase, back of the green silk cur- 
tain, stood her dance slippers and Eskimo 
shoes, but in the bottom of the bookcase 
lay a collection of bones and old iron. 

Andrea got one penny a pound for these at 
the junkshop. 

And so Andrea found a way in all innocence. 

She lay playing with a couple of heather- 
tufts that the washerwoman’s little boy had 
brought her. They were from the “ Rolling 
Hill,” where Andrea every year picked wortle- 
[ 7 ] 


ANDREA 

berries in competition with the Poorhouse 
women, and scrambled round and round — 
alone — until dress and petticoats were in 
tatters. Then she promised her dress to the 
one who was poorest ; but before she gave it 
away, the cook must needs weigh it. She 
could get five cents a pound from “Peter” 
over at the paper-factory. 

Andrea amused herself by letting the dry 
earth crumble from the roots down on sheet 
and night-dress. 

“Now, Musser — it is surely soiled, not ?” 

And she let it crumble. 

When the besmudged and bedraggled little 
girls came with a half-eaten candy-stick or a 
beautiful fragment of glass from the gutter, 
Andrea wanted to have them lifted up, and 
they kissed her right on the mouth — but 
afterward her mother had to wash her face. 

Every time the bell rang, she listened and 
was jubilant over the many gifts that con- 
tinued to come. 


[ 8 ] 


ANDREA 


“Musser,” said she, “you do not think, do 
you that it is because of — , you know ?” 

The mother shook her head and laughed, 
and the child laughed with her. They al- 
ways found occasion to laugh, and they both 
knew that it was the wisest way in which to 
chase the very sorrowful thoughts from the 
room. 

“ Because for my birthday I received thirty- 
one congratulations, besides bonbons and 
gifts!” 

Andrea lay and looked toward the win- 
dow. 

“Oh — bring me the field-glass!” 

“ What do you want with that ?” 

“ I am going to use it.” She pressed her 
lips together and looked saucily: “Inquis- 
itive!” 

The mother brought the field-glass, and 
Andrea slid it under the cover. 

A little later, when the mother was out for 
water, Andrea stealthily brought it forth. 
[ 9 ] 


ANDREA 

With a knowing smile she held it before her 
eyes, pointed it towards the window and 
screwed it up and down. 

There ought to be a gable with a stork’s 
nest — but it was not there. 

No it was not there! 

Quietly she dropped the field-glass, folded 
her hands and sighed ; but when the mother 
came, her eyes were glad again. 

“ Do you know — I should really like to go 
to a dance once more; just one little dance!” 
And she looked sidewise down at the light 
blue night-gown, that was embroidered with 
silk flowers on the collar. And she cast a 
sly glance at the bows in the two dark braids 
that bound her to the pillow like shining 
chains. 

“ I do not know any one who has light blue 
night-gowns, eh ? It was droll that we should 
hit upon that. Ah, yes, the way one has 
danced, both when one was allowed to, and 
when father became hot about the ears be- 
[ 10 ] 


ANDREA 

cause of it. And how weary those little feet 
are now!” 

With a great effort she thrust forth one foot. 

“Heavens! Such a lean little thing. It 
was good that I took my dance in time, else I 
should have shaken the bed out of joint with 
my restlessness in these days. Is it not so, 
Musser ? Don’t you agree with me ?” 

“Yes, of course — but now try to sleep, 
dear!” 

“ Sleep! So you think I want to sleep ? I 
want to prattle, I do, and not sleep one single 
wink. You are surely not tired or peevish, 
are you?” 

No, that the mother was not. 

The girl came in with a letter. The mother 
took it. 

“ It is from Josephine — shall I read it ?” 

But the Child wanted to keep the letter un- 
til she became well. 

It was put into her hands. 

“ Mother — one never knows what lies 

[ 11 ] 


ANDREA 

inside of two such white walls. One might 
become afraid — ” 

The mother laughed. 

“Josephine is not as bad as she appears — 
but shall I not read it ?” 

“No — I want to have it for myself. I 
will read it myself — when the eyes are en- 
tirely well!” 

She lay crumpling it, straining her eyes to 
distinguish the signature. 

“It is such a living thing, a letter !” 

Then she put it away from her. 

“Little Mother !” 

“Yes — ” 

“Will you not do everything that I ask 
for, even though it be stupid, if it is not too 
shockingly expensive ?” 

The mother nodded. 

“ Still if it costs something, eh ?” 

“ That you know very well, little child !” 

“ Well, all right, then I believe you and take 
you at your word. I think we ought to have 
[ 12 ] 


ANDREA 

a celebration to-day, we three old folks. What 
do you say to that ?” 

“A celebration ?” 

“Yes, exactly, a celebration. I want to 
have Grandmother Voldby’s gold chain on 
and all the rings — fiddle-faddle, little mother, 
my fingers are not tired to-day. Then you 
make afternoon-tea for yourself and father 
with lady-fingers, and an eggnog for me, real 
white and rich. You put on your new waist 
and comb the part straight — remember that! 
And then — no, that you shall do first of all 
— send word to old Nikolsen to come at 
once with his accordion and play two hours 
down in the garden. Two hours! Nothing 
but song and dance. He does it for twenty- 
five cents an hour. But hasten, my dear 
Musser, hasten !” 

She laughed, and the mother laughed with 
her, kissed her on the forehead, and was going. 

“ Stop a little — there is no one in the whole 
wide world I think so much of as of you ; no, 
[ 13 ] 


ANDREA 


not one; not a single one. Do you hear 
that ?” 

And the~mother was hardly out, before the 
child took the white letter, tore it open, and 
stared and stared. 

This much she saw, that it was only three 
lines, a greeting and a name. 

But it disappeared in a mist. 

She rang. The hand that rang the little 
bell trembled. Very impatiently she rang, 
and continued, until the girl from the kitchen 
came storming in. 

“Read, Anne — read, quickly, read — ” 

And Anne gaped in astonishment, and Anne 
read. 

“Once again.” 

Anne read it once more. 

“You may go now — it was only that.” 

Now the words were imprinted in her mem- 
ory. 

She turned her shoulders so that her head 
slid out of place. Her neck pained. 

[ 14 ] 


ANDREA 

Very slowly, very softly she continued to 
repeat the contents of the letter. 

There was in her soul no thought beyond it. 


The mother went through the lofty rooms, 
where the plants stood and withered and 
made the air close and oppressive, for no one 
remembered to give them water. 

She went to the room where the father sat 
alone with his sorrow. 

But outside of the door she faltered, as was 
always her habit outside of his door. 

He dropped the book, but did not look up. 

“What is it?” 

“Andrea asked me to call!” She said it 
softly and humbly. He arose, looked up, but 
did not look at her. 

“ Is there — anything else ?” 

“No — not now. She is so wonderfully 
[ 15 ] 


ANDREA 

well satisfied. But I know — but I know — 
oh, Karsten, I feel a great dread. You must 
be careful. Andrea sees, as if she read our 
thoughts !” 

“Sees — ” 

“I cannot endure it!” 

“You must accustom yourself to it, Jutta. 
It must be endured!” 

He shook off the hand that she had laid 
on his shoulder. 

“Karsten!” 

“ Could you not spare me these scenes — if 
only during this time!” 

Then she was silent. 

Outside of the door she took his hand. 

“For her sake!” 

Hand in hand, and smiling, they went in — 
where the child received them with a smile, 
that came from the depths of her sorrow like 
their own. 

“You come so sweetly;” she looked from 
the one to the other. “You come so sweetly, 
[ 16 ] 


ANDREA 

you two. But then you have not been here 
for over three hours, father!” 

He sat down by her bed, and the mother 
went out again. 

“Real rich and white, do you hear, Mus- 
ser,” cried the child. 

The father asked how things were. 

“Are you the doctor?” 

“No, but then — ” 

“No, but then you should let the doctors 
take care of that, and look after your boys 
with their Greek and Latin. But as for that, 
it goes indifferently well. That is to say, for 
the moment it goes so remarkably lovely that 
we are going to have a celebration. But, 
then, tell me something!” 

He told her a little about the school. 

“The pudden-heads — oh, oh! Will you 
have a chocolate pastille as large as a dollar ? 
There in the drawer. But give me half!” 

The father put it in between her lips, and 
she snapped it with a smile. 

[ 17 ] 


ANDREA 

“It is very tempting, I am going to eat all 
of it — you take another. But then what will 
our mother say to that ; she has not had any 
at all, and she has been here the whole day. 
She is so awfully good to me, indeed she is, 
so awfully, absurdly good, that it pains me to 
think of it. She surely sleeps with her eyes 
ajar, just to watch over me. And she is so 
sad, so sad. We should really give her some- 
thing for all her goodness to us, should we 
not ? A silk waist ? When she does not stoop 
over she has a very charming figure. Blue it 
must be, of course, like all the others. Shall 
we?” 

The father promised it, and played with 
her hand. 

“ Have you seen how we have dressed up ?” 
She showed him her rings. “Do you remember 
that one ? That was an uncomfortable time, 
indeed. What a hubbub you made ! and the 
way the doctors gaped at me ! I can remember 
I thought, — “ if only they do not cut me open 
[ 18 ] 


ANDREA 

like a fish to see what there is inside of me.” 
But then you gave me the ring so as to lie 
mouse-quiet. They were so sure that I was 
done for, but they were certainly fooled that 
time! ” She laughed quietly. 

“ That time — ” 

The father saw the changed expression. 

“ You got that one with the pearls for your 
confirmation!” 

“Yes, thank you, my dear master, we re- 
member. Only girl in white silk with train. 
And then we had forgotten the garters at 
home, ha, ha! And the stockings slipped 
down. I threatened Goldsmith Larsen with 
all manner of torture. ‘ If you do not induce 
father to buy that ring, you will never get 
brooches to repair for either Agnes, Jeannette, 
Edith, or me ; so now you know it.’ And Lar- 
sen was obliging enough, and you were a dear, 
stupid father, who jumped right into the trap !” 

“Yes, because he had such an awfully art- 
ful daughter!” 


[ 19 ] 


ANDREA 

“Well — yes, you may say that, if you will; 
but then I have done worse things than that. 
Shall I confide the worst to you ? It cost one 
hundred and fifty. That was because of the 
stone, you understand. But you must not 
dare to tell Musser, for she has such scruples. 
She says that I must neither lie nor steal. 
Now do you know any one who neither lies nor 
steals? Of course you don’t, certainly not! 
4 Larsen, mark the ring down to fifty crowns ; 
then we buy it. 5 And Larsen, he was a sly 
fellow. ‘ Why, father, have you ever in your 
life seen anything so disgracefully cheap — the 
one who could own such a ring ! 9 Father went 
into the trap, and I got the ring on the 
Christmas tree ; but for eleven months Larsen 
shared half of my pocket-money.” 

“But, what is this I hear? Then that 
must have been the time you sold bones and 
rags and old iron ? ” 

“That was it, father. Heaven knows, one 
had to find a way out of it. How I begged 
[ 20 ] 


ANDREA 

Musserfor soup, which is so disgusting, merely 
for the sake of the bones. You are not cross 
on account of the ring — I tell you, I love 
it at least as much as my long nail!” 

“Droll little girl with the nail!” 

“Yes, why not? But can you remember 
Lavinia Fink, the beautiful, — she who had 
no husband ? She wore either raven-black or 
snow-white with green shoes and red stock- 
ings, and she was so inexpressibly lovely and 
Bohemian. Her nails, however, were ever so 
much finer than mine. But then I let one 
grow out on my big toe as well, and that was 
extra! Look, father, here it is; see how it 
glistens. It becomes more shiny and quaint- 
looking, the weaker I myself grow.” 

The father tried to jest, and promised her 
small silk cases for the nail. 

“Father!” 

“Yes!” 

“Have you noticed the way everything 
fades P It’s the sun ; but Anne insists that the 
[ 21 ] 


ANDREA 


night-dress here is not faded ; and you can see, 
can’t you, that it is nearly lavender ? That’s 
so — listen ! there was something — ” 
-That—” 

“ That you must help me with. Oh, father, 
won’t you — teach me the Danish letters, but 
in an awful hurry ?” 

“ But tell me, what do you want with them ?” 

“Father, you must teach me them!” 

“Yes, yes, as soon as you are better, you 
can learn them in two hours, surely!” 

“Father, you have promised it every day 
... if you do not teach them to me ... I 
cannot die peacefully.” 

She said it very quietly, and held her fa- 
ther’s eyes the while; then she repeated : 

“Not peacefully, then!” 

Perceiving that there was a feeling of dread 
and apprehension over the child, he gave his 
word that he would teach her the Danish 
letters the next day. 

“Father — you must not forget it, — you 

[ 22 ] 


ANDREA 


must not, you must not, both the large and 
small letters; just as they wrote in the olden 
days!” 

He promised to remember the old-fash- 
ioned characters. 

“But then there was a note I wanted to 
write . . . will you help me with it, father ? 
I want so very much to write it myself, only 
two lines. That I can do, I am sure, with 
big, big letters, can’t I ? ” 

“Andrea, little girl — the doctor says — ” 

“If you will not, then you will not. I can 
count the spots on the curtain and the butter- 
flies from here. I am not altogether blind yet. 
But then we’ll talk no more about that. If 
only I were up; if only I were up!” 

Suddenly she threw the cover about her 
and said in a voice that bubbled over with 
laughter : “ Then I would surely amuse you ! ” 

The maid came in with a coarse paper bag 
for Andrea. 

“ Now what can it be ?” She stretched out 
[ 23 ] 


ANDREA 


her hands. The father took the bag, opened 
it, and began to laugh. 

“ Who is it from, Anne ?” 

“It was a sailor, or some one of that kind, 
who said that it was for our sick lady.” 

The father emptied the bag — ship’s-crack- 
ers as big as soup plates. They smelled 
mouldy. 

But Andrea said, coyly: “Let me taste — 
they are from my sweetheart!” 

“Oh, so that is it; yes, I suppose you have 
many sweethearts ?” 

“Only one and a half, father, one and a 
half; and then you: but this is from the one!” 

“Not from the half?” 

“ No — from my real sweetheart!” 

Which one is that ?” 

f * The one with the crackers. He is a sailor 
and has curly hair, and only one ear, and a 
red^muffler around his neck.” 

“How my little girl talks!” 

** Why, father, it is true. I will tell you all. 

[ 24 ] 


ANDREA 


But you must not laugh, nor become grieved, 
nor get angry, will you ? It is a great secret !” 

“I am all ears!” 

“Then put your ear close down to me, and 
I’ll whisper it to you. It was last year, when 
I was out rowing. He sat and played the ac- 
cordion up on the deck of the ship. And one 
evening he did not play, but stood and munch- 
ed crackers, and I was very flippant, you 
know. ‘Give me one, too,’ I cried; and he 
threw one down to me, and then we became 
good friends. I saw his sleeping-room, and 
I assure you, father, that it was no larger than 
a bed — and there lay two, one above the 
other, on shelves; upon my word they did. 
Ugh! He certainly is not handsome. But 
this year he came back ; and he had broken his 
leg over in England, and was so sad. You 
are not angry, are you, father ? ” 

“No, no — what else ?” 

“Yes — then I promised to marry him, 
when I am twenty years old, and he is captain 
[ 25 ] 


ANDREA 

of a vessel. I do not care the least bit more 
for him than for the man without a nose down 
on the wharf — but then he has no one who 
cares for him. And all that he has seen in 
foreign countries! You should just hear! 
To be sure Pierre Loti’s little sailor was in- 
deed a different and nicer fellow. He has 
kissed me seven times — but not on the mouth, 
of course; and he has given me his word, that 
when we are married, he will still refrain from 
kissing me on the mouth. It is only you and 
Musser, who may do that. Now then, what 
do you say ?” 

The father kissed her. 

“Father has nothing at all to say when his 
little girl takes sweethearts on her own ac- 
count.” 

“Well, now . . . was it . . . was it shab- 
by of me to deceive him, when I knew, that 
. . . that I, . . . you know ?” 

“Oh, no, Andrea, it was not at all . . . 
shabby!” 


[ 26 ] 


ANDREA 

“I have not told it to you before, for sup- 
pose you had thought I should get well, you 
might have give him a raking over the coals ! 
He would be very happy, I can tell you, if you 
gave him my Chinese-silk mufflers; for he 
thinks them most beautiful. You need not 
say anything about it to Musser, for she will 
tell it to all the other ladies, and that we 
cannot have, can we ?” 

“No, it shall be between us two!” 

“Father, if you whimper, then I’ll cry. 
You must laugh. Kiss me, little father, my 
lovely, lovely father. My very loveliest fa- 
ther. Lay your hand here on my forehead, 
then we will keep quiet for two minutes. 
So now look at your watch. Sh ! Sh ! !” 

He took his watch out, and Andrea fol- 
lowed the hands. 

“Ugh, now I can stand it no longer. Fa- 
ther, if now I should become quite blind, it 
would not matter so much after all; because 
you can tell me everything — can you not ? 

[ 27 ] 


ANDREA 

Cannot we two also agree upon one pair of 
eyes, we two ?” 

The father could not find words to answer. 

Suddenly she pressed her lips together and 
became ashen pale. 

“What was it? What was it? I was so 
frightened. I am so afraid. It is in here, 
little father . . . feel . . . help me!” 

He laid his hand on her chest, and noticed 
the uneasy beating of her heart. 

“ And what will you do, when you are alone ? 
what will you do . , . you two ?” 

“Andrea!” 

He could not bear to hear those words. 

“If I keep quiet, I shall burst. ... If I 
only knew one thing, — that you were happy 
together, with love and little gifts, and five- 
o’clock tea every day. Musser is so good, so 
good ; but happy, — that she certainly is not. 
It is just as if her eyes continually ask for 
pardon ; as if she had done something wrong. 
If you only kissed each other every morning, 
[ 28 ] 


ANDREA 


and . . . yes, you should both sleep in here 
and think of me. Then, I can tell you, she 
would never take morphine to make her sleep. 
She could squeeze herself into my bed, and 
you could have hers, for it seems so poor and 
forlorn now. You could lie together, hand in 
hand ... if only I were sure of it, I should 
almost not be the least bit afraid of ... ” 

“Andrea ... we will do everything that 
you ask!” 

“ Will you ? Will you ? In here . . . you 
and Musser ? Do you dare say ‘ honour bright’ 
on that ? Father, father, how I love you! I 
can notice it far out in my ribs, and there the 
heart is not, I am sure! If only now I could 
be with you — we three, all alone ! May I — 
may I tell her about it? Gracious, how 
glad she’ll be! It is not a fib, is it? You 
are not deceiving me? You surely would 
not, eh ? No, certainly not. Thank you for 
that, father. Oh, now I am as light as a 
feather!” 


[ 29 ] 


ANDREA 


“Tell me, Andrea, is there anything you 
wish for very much ?” 

“ Wish for, wish for ? Yes, God bless you, 
to be sure there is. First, a pair of awfully 
strong spectacles, awfully, awfully strong, so 
that I myself can read my letters ; and then a 
red skating cap with a tiny gold bell in the tas- 
sel — that is surely something I have gotten 
from a fairy tale . . . but here in the city one 
cannot get them, do you think so ? And then 
a thick, very, very thick, raw, red carrot to 
munch — you do not know how I love such 
carrots ! Then there is nothing more, unless 
. . . yes . . . lift me a little, carry me a little ! 
Oh, father, carry me a little, I am so tired of 
lying down. We’ll shut the door, eh ?” 

“I dare not — you can’t stand it!” 

“ Lift me, lift me a little ... it will prob- 
ably be the last time. Now that I ask you!” 

Then the father lifted her carefully and 
tenderly, and carried her in his arms up and 
down the floor, up and down. She nestled 
[ 30 ] 


ANDREA 

up to him, and looked closely at everything. 

“This is lovely . . . we fly, we two. It re- 
lieves me somewhat, when you walk with me 
like this. It is as if I were covered with 
feathers. We two, father dear, we know best! 

Father . . . there is so much I want to 
have on my own little stone, but we will not 
speak of that now. In the drawer over there 
under the astrologer’s card, it lies. You will 
see to it, will you not ?” 

He nodded and kissed her on the eyes. She 
became heavy in his arms, and fell into a light 
slumber. He could not relax his hold on her, 
and not until she shivered from the cold did 
he lay her down ; and then she awoke at once. 

“Father — if Josephine sends a wreath, it 
must not come on my grave!” 

“Are you angry with Josephine?” 

She nodded and her eyes became big. 

“Father — she has done me harm. Now, 
remember, even though it were the most beau- 
tiful of them all!” 


[ 31 ] 


ANDREA 

The father promised to remember all that 
she said, and never to forget it. 

“ Father, tell me — is it entirely impossible ? 
Yes, or no P Then afterwards I will tell you 
what it is!” 

“What shall I answer?” 

“I — no, of course!” 

“ Very well, then — no, it is not impossible !” 

“Now — there we have caught a wise old 
rat ! That was the best that could ever hap- 
pen ... a little bit of a fat lassie, just as 
greedy as a puppy; and her name must be 
Andrea. Andrea shall be her name! 

“What do you mean now, child ?” 

“ Have I your word, or have I not ? It was 
not impossible, you said yourself. How I 
have wished for it ! She would surely become 
a paragon of strength and beauty, who could 
both dance and get married, and all the rest. 
For I know very well all the rest : I know much 
more than you think!” 

The father hid his face in his hands. An- 
[ 32 ] 


ANDREA 

drea drew a little sigh, but laughed right aftef* 
so that no one should notice it. 

“What has become of Nikolsen and the 
eggnog ? I am sleepy. It whirls and throbs 
inside of my head!” 

And shortly after: “Haven’t you a cold 
hand, father, an ice cold hand ? The way it 
swells, the way it burns ... an ice cold hand 
. . . Father, that is the only thing I care for. 
Dear God, you ought not to refuse me that!” 

The cramps were upon her. The mother 
came, running. She nearly drove her hus- 
band from the child’s bed. He went toward 
the door; this was almost unendurable. 

But he would not allow himself to be forced 
by the pain of it to leave his child now that the 
end was approaching. 

But he had to go. 

Down in the garden, old Nikolsen had be- 
gun to play — a merry waltz ; and the mother 
forgot to tell him to stop. 

She knelt by the side of her child and 
[ 33 ] 


ANDREA 

thought: Is this, then, at last the merciful 
death! 

For she had watched the child’s sufferings, 
had seen the dread in her eyes, had heard her 
pitiful moaning night and day. 

But it was not death. 

Darkness fell, and night came on. 

In a room in the farthest corner of the house, 
the father walked up and down. He let his 
fingers stray along the high rows of the book- 
shelves, but the book that could draw his 
thoughts to it was not there. 

And he knew that the heart-suffering he 
now experienced was as nothing to the empti- - 
ness that soon would envelop him whereso- 
ever he was, and wheresoever he went. 

For Andrea was in the whole world the only 
person who had a part in his heart. And the 
thought of the promise he had given regarding 
her mother, now came to him. 

It had come to this, Jutta, in his thoughts, 
was only Andrea’s mother. 

[ 34 ] 


ANDREA 

He lighted a cigar and marvelled that it 
would not keep alight. He also marvelled 
that although his child was soon to leave him, 
he was not sitting by her bed. 

He was alone. 

The child’s mother was there. She clung 
to her right ... as if by Andrea’s bed there 
was not room for two. When the one came, 
the other went out. 

He turned the key in both doors, seated 
himself by the writing table, and hid his face 
in his hands. 


Andrea could not speak; she never could 
after these attacks. It was as if the tongue 
stuck fast and became heavy in her mouth. 
She could not speak ; but when she moved her 
lips, the mother moistened them with a sponge 
dipped in wine. She lay with clear, express- 
[ 35 ] 


ANDREA 


ionless eyes. But there was an apprehensive 
dread over her. The mother noticed it by the 
helpless despair with which she wrote and 
wrote on the counterpane — wrote with those 
thin fingers. 

The mother lit a number of candles, and 
placed them close about the bed. Andrea’s 
pupils contracted. 

Then the mother knew that this time she 
was not blind after the attack. She held a 
rose over to her, and she received the fragrance 
with astonishment, but evidently did not see 
the flower. 

The mother began to sing little songs with 
many verses — her voice was broken with 
sorrow. 

Now the hands became quiet; they lay flat 
on the sheet as if they belonged together, and 
had died together. 

And the mother did not take her eyes away 
from those hands, now that they were at rest. 

“Go ... to bed . . . Musser!” 

[ 36 ] 


ANDREA 

A softer sound was not to be heard ; it was 
more subdued than the lamp’s quiet song and 
the feeble sigh of the breathing, but with her 
heart the mother felt every word. Obediently 
she undressed herself for the night, and crept 
into the bed that stood close to the child’s. 

Her eyes needed the solace of tears. 

For a very long time there was a sorrowful 
silence. 

“Aren’t you sleeping? Are you afraid of 
that .... you know .... to-night?” 

She did not wait for the mother’s answer. 

“I have called over a hundred times, and 
called and called. You did not hear it. I 
could not see, but my eyes became cold, and 
they were open/and I could not speak a word. 
It swelled inside of me, and crawled so dis- 
gustingly on my tongue. You do not know 
how dreadful it was. But then I remembered 
that I was still here . . . with you. Now, 
isn’t it odd that you can’t hear how it cries out 
within me? . . . Oh dear, Musser, do you 
[ 37 ] 


ANDREA 

burn Christmas candles now ? Such an idea! 
Have you no money P You might, at least, af- 
ford a real candle. It is so horribly dark here !” 

The mother let her believe that it was 
Christmas candles, but asked her to lie per- 
fectly quiet, and began a lullaby to bring her 
into a slumber. 

“Yes but, yes but — I must needs talk 
while yet I can ... so that I may be empty. 
Mother — afterwards, what then, if I am not 
empty ? When even one’s own mother cannot 
hear anything!” 

Now there were tears in the voice, and the 
mother hastened to comfort her. She assured 
her, and insisted that a mother is one with her 
child, and that nothing can separate them. 

“Yes, such things are said, but they are not 
borne out. Have you ever heard of a father 
or mother who died because their child died ? 
No, they eat every blessed day, and sleep and 
talk. That about being “one” is all nonsense. 
You do not know, for instance, what I lay 
[ 38 ] 


ANDREA 

here meditating about — but then it would 
not be pleasant, either, if you did ... No 
. . . but tell me, just for fun, how long you 
will be with me every day — one hour, two 
hours ? Because I know for a certainty that 
one’s thoughts do not cease, and I shall be 
longing so awfully for you — much, much 
more, than you for me. For you have the 
streets and books and the food and all that. 
Now . . . how long? In the beginning, three 
hours, perhaps?” 

The mother would not leave her child either 
by night or day. 

“ Musser, you always make such rash prom- 
ises ; one should never promise more than one 
can keep. And eat, you surely must, and 
sleep ... I am only afraid that I shall starve; 
it is so awful to think of : to starve . . . But I 
know something about you, Musser, and it is 
good ... if only it is true.” 

She was tired and began to whisper. 

“Father has said it himself — it was he 
[ 39 ] 


ANDREA 


who thought of it ... he will stay here at 
night, with you, every single night. Then 
you surely can go to sleep, can you not ? And 
do you think he lies ?” 

For a moment the mother forgot everything 
else in the thought of herself and weighed 
word for word what the child was saying, 
i But Andrea noticed the doubt, and repeated 
the promise time and again, embellished it, 
coloured the words, laid her own heart’s 
jneaning in it — the mother must believe, 
must be made happy. 

“And then you will surely get something 
else to do than to sit by me ! But of that I will 
not say anything, father will tell you that him- 
self. And oh! how often I have run off 
from you, even though you were alone !” 

She sighed. 

“Little uiother, would that there were a 
sfyop where they sold cold, cold, hands. 
Thank you . . . no, yours are warm, too.” 

The tower clock struck two. Andrea was 
[ 40 ] 


ANDREA 

silent, and the mother was silent with her; but 
at the stroke of the half hour she moaned. 

“ Mother . . . that was only a half-hour. 
Oh, how long it was ! If one could only pluck 
this thought out of the head as one pulls out a 
tooth — if only one could! Think of it; you 
are my mother, and you cannot take one of 
these gruesome thoughts! You should only 
know how they steal about inside of me. If 
we were rich, then you could build a marble 
tomb; and there I should like to be. But, 
mother . . . mother ... I shall lie down 
there many, many, many hours, while you go 
up here and forget me! How can you have 
the heart to do it! . . . Nonsense, Musser, I 
am really not so much afraid, but lonely, yes, 
that it surely will be . . . lonely. Can you re- 
member what we had on the day I became ten 
years old? Bread pudding with whipped 
cream, pan cakes with currant jelly, and, best 
of all — apple compote. For those were my 
favourite dishes. Don’t you think it is because 
[ 41 ] 


ANDREA 


I always ate mustard with a teaspoon that I 
have such a sharp memory ?” 

There was silence, but Andrea began again : 
“Why does not father come? You surely 
have not quarrelled? Mother, have you 
quarrelled ?” 

The mother told her that he had gone to 
bed. 

“Now, you know that is not true. He 
goes up in his room and waits, and waits for 
something . . . that he is afraid of. Mother, 
is he not a little bit cowardly, just a little ?” 

The mother answered “No,” and the child 
whimpered: “Mother . . . you are so far 
away! If I make myself real little and thin, 
may I not come over to you, eh ? My bed is 
so cold!” 

The mother took her over to herself, as 
when she was a little child and lay on her 
breast. 

They wept so inaudibly, that the one was 
not aware of the other’s weeping. 

[ 42 ] 


ANDREA 


“ Hold me real tight, it matters not if you 
squeeze ... In a little while it will hurt ; it 
comes from deep, deep inside of me . . . Be- 
fore, I used to dream that some one twisted 
a corkscrew down into my head, and wanted 
to wrench it off — now, it is just as if it were 
sticking there . . . Musser, little Musser, I 
really never would have married, but always 
have remained with you and earned money 
besides, so that when you became old . . . 
Even though you were as deaf and cross 
as Mistress Hansen . . . You shall have all 
the things in my bureau drawer, then you will 
have something to adorn yourself with, not ? 
But then you must also dress every day . . . 
When we haven’t me, then you can get so 
many more dresses . . . but tell Madame 
Berg that she must by all means see to it 
that you do not allow your right side to 
sag!” 

She laughed that little, embarrassed laugh 
that reminded one strongly of the mother’s. 

[ 43 ] 


ANDREA 

“And you must never eat goose-fat . . . 
on account of the complexion!” 

She nestled close to the mother, and her 
hands were cold. 

“As soon ... as soon, as, you know 
what I mean . . . Josephine shall have my 
sapphire ring. The same day . . . but not 
before. It is not necessary before!” 

“ Do you care so much for Josephine, then ?” 

“Yes ... so much do I care for Jose- 
phine!” 


[ 44 ] 


CHAPTER TWO 


Toward the morning Andrea died. The 
parents sat by her bed, torn with anguish and 
fear by her death-struggle. 

What was it that they should “burn, for 
God’s sake, burn ? ” 

What was the wager that Josephine had 
won? What was the remorse that cried 
forth from the child’s lips ? 

And so imploringly she continued to ask: 
“Father, little father, teach me the Danish 
letters, teach me them soon, teach me them 
now! ” 

But the last words were followed by a smile: 
“Musser, your dress sags: what will father 
say to that ? ” 

And now it was over, all over. 

[ 45 ] 


ANDREA 

The little clock continued to run, to run, to 
hasten — now, when there was nothing more 
to hasten after. 

The father looked at his hands, that but a 
little while ago had carried Andrea to free her 
from the fear of death that had oppressed her 
as she struggled between the white pillows 
which she mistook for a coffin; but she did 
not know him. 

He looked at those hands. 


Again it was night. There were three in 
the room, but the one did not breathe. 

The father sat by Andrea’s bed and held 
her hand in his; but every time he became 
aware that the hand was cold and without life, 
he shuddered and looked fearfully aside. 

Over there, by the lamp, the mother sat and 
sewed, stitch after stitch, stitch after stitch, 
[ 46 ] 


ANDREA 

the long white silk dress for Andrea. Thus 
she had wished to have it. “But Musser 
shall sew it afterwards — what if it does get a 
little wrinkled ? And you surely need not sew 
the buttonholes ; that is something no one will 
notice, eh, Musser P ” 

It was one of the promises that must be 
kept. 

The mother pricked her finger; the mother 
thrust the needle through the silk, and her 
tears were mingled with the many stitches. 
But he who sat over there by the child, he said 
not a word — he did not comfort her with the 
slightest sign. And only when he shuddered 
did she tremble; and she also was reminded 
that there was one in the room whom they 
feared — Death was there. 

That night was long, so long that the mother 
forgot her tears. And then the white silk 
dress was finished, and he and she carefully 
drew the light-blue nightgown from the child’s 
shoulders and dressed her for the coffin. Still 
[ 47 ] 


ANDREA 


they did not speak to each other. The 
father lifted her up for the last time in his 
arms, while the mother arranged the bier as 
it should be. There fell a little sheet of paper 
on the floor, which he picked up and kept. He 
recognized it. He had seen Andrea crumple 
it up, smooth it out, and crumple it up again. 
He hid this little sheet of white paper. 

“Do you remain here, Jutta?” Now he 
spoke for the first time. 

“Shall I go away — from my child?” 
she said. Then he turned about and went 
out. 


The mother had fallen deep into her abyss 
of sorrow, and she cried out to all the winds 
for help. She was near to losing her reason. 

She felt as only a mother can feel — that 
overpowering agony because the child, who 
[ 48 ] 


ANDREA 

had once by force been taken from her very 
heart, now again, with ten-fold greater force, 
was torn from her. 

They all saw that her grief was greater than 
she could bear ; and they tried, as best they 
could, to share it with her, for they also had 
loved Andrea. 

They also had loved Andrea — all those 
who knew her. And that which, with large, 
uneven pencil marks she had written on 
back of the prescriptions, was preserved with 
the utmost care, as if it were her legal will and 
testament. 

From the time she was brought into the 
chapel the father kept watch over her every 
night. He perceived from her death-struggle 
that this lay on her mind. 

No, he did not keep watch over the empty 
churchyard; he stood there leaning against 
the wall of the chapel with his eyes open, 
awake and thinking. 

In there she lay, his little soul, “ The child 
[ 49 ] 


ANDREA 


with the warm, warm heart,” as Stephen had 
called her. 

As he stood there, he wondered that his 
brother’s words should keep running through 
his mind. 

But the whole night long it sang in his 
thoughts, and welled over in his eyes: “The 
child with the warm, warm heart! ” 


[ 50 ] 


CHAPTER THREE 


And thus she was buried, as she had desired 
it, entirely so. Old Nikolsen was the only 
one omitted, as the sexton declared it would 
be sacrilege if one permitted accordion music 
in a holy churchyard. 

Inside of the coffin, between myrtle crosses 
and wreaths as small as necklaces, lay long 
rolls of chocolate pastilles — those that were 
“like dollars.” These last were brought by 
the little children who had so often received 
small gifts from Andrea. 

The soft, lustrous coverlet from Smyrna, 
that used to lie on Andrea’s bed — or, when 
she played Harem, on the floor — was now 
wrapped about the coffin, so that the earth 
should not penetrate through the seams. 

[ 51 ] 


ANDREA 


The grave was chosen towards the south, 
because she was so susceptible to cold and 
such a lover of the sun. 

Her friend Edith played the violin ; she cried 
and played, and the tones became discordant 
and squeaky, but no one noticed it. 
i Afterwards Edith had to play in the empty 
home for all the little children who had left 
their games to follow Andrea. They were 
given ginger cakes and lemonade and egg- 
nogs, as rich and white as the cook was able 
to make them on such a day. 

There were those among the people of the ] 
town who called all this mere mummery, but 
they had not read Andrea’s pencil marks on 
the^old prescriptions. 

The father had removed Josephine’s wreath 
himself — it was of pure white flowers, and 
the most beautiful of them all. He sat a long 
time and turned it about in his hands. 

What was meant by Harm ? 

Andrea wanted to have a cherry tree on her 
[ 52 ] 


ANDREA 


grave and many giant strawberries, as many 
as there was room for. But besides this she 
also wished that each of her friends would 
plant a little flowering plant out by her. The 
weeds must not be taken away, and there 
should stand fine, large, white benches, so 
that one might sit comfortably and long by 
her. 

The grave must not be made into a mound, 
but should be flat, like a greensward. 

There was raised a little, white stone, and on 
it was written: 

THE CHILD WITH THE WARM, WARM HEART. 


Three months later the mother, one day, 
began to look over Andrea’s treasures. 

At first she had been unable to bear even the 
thought of parting with anything that had be- 
longed to Andrea. 


[ 53 ] 


ANDREA 

The ring was not sent to Josephine. 

Nothing must be disturbed in the child’s 
room. She cried out in wild wrath when, by 
the order of the Master,* the bedding was re- 
moved and the empty bed covered over with 
a quilt. 

She would not relinquish her claim to any- 
thing — not even to the withered flowers nor 
the empty medicine bottles — not a thing 
would she part with. 

The mother stood in there; she wanted 
to give her sorrow new nourishment, new 
life. 

But when she had emptied the wardrobe of 
its contents, it was as if she saw Andrea’s 
half-blind, reproachful eyes. 

Terrified, she dropped what she held and 
went out of the room. Long after she seemed 
to hear Andrea say, half jestingly, half offend- 
ed: “But, Musser, what are you about? 
Keep away from my things ! ” 


* The husband. 


[ 54 ] 


ANDREA 

The next time, when she overcame her fear, 
and went in to continue the arranging of the 
things, she missed a lavender dress that above 
all the others was the one most dear to Andrea. 

She did not know of anything else to do 
than to go to the child’s father. The dress 
must surely be stolen. 

He regarded her with that dark, contemp- 
tuous smile which, like a cold blast, could fly 
over his face. 

“ Was it worth so much, that dress ?” 

She was silent and timorous, and did not 
understand what he meant ; but when he gent- 
ly repeated the question, she answered that 
it had cost at least forty crowns, even though 
it was made at home. 

He pulled out the drawer of the writing- 
table, and counted out four bank-notes: "‘So 
now, perhaps, you will do me the kindness not 
to speak of that theft any more! ” 

At the moment she was tired, simply tired. 
And she needed the money. Since Andrea’s 
[ 55 ] 


ANDREA 

death it was more difficult than ever before to 
ask for money. 

She took them and went out. 

But once inside of Andrea’s room she was 
overpowered with despair and humiliation. 

She pulled out the bureau drawers and rum- 
maged among all the foolish things the child 
had accumulated. 

And she found a vague comfort in the be- 
lief that Andrea had, during her last illness, 
been drawn more to herself than to the father. 

The mother glanced hastily now here, now 
there, and in everything she could see Andrea, 
the clever, the capricious. 

The whole of the small top drawer was 
filled up with papers, letters, note-books and 
writing-books. 

She picked up this and that. This was a 
clear and concise account of bones, rags and 
old iron, silk stockings and comfits, bathing 
tickets for dirty little children, whiskey for 
the inmates of the poor-house asylum. 

[W] 


ANDREA 

Andrea had a sense of order only in one 
thing. In money matters she was inordinate- 
ly careful. Even “two pennies omitted in 
the column” was entered. 

There were a number of writing-books half- 
filled with poor verses, and under the writing- 
books two blue pamphlets. 

“ Must be burnt unread. My father must 
not read them. Nor my mother. You must 
not. Andrea.” 

It was the Diary. 

The mother knew that if she remained there 
any longer she would read every word. And 
she went out so as not to be tempted. 

But out into the night, when she lay strug- 
gling with her sick thoughts, she fetched the 
“Diary.” 

She turned over the leaves and saw that 
the last entries were written with lead pencil 
and scarcely a month before the child’s 
death. 

She read : 


[ 57 ] 








FROM THE DIART 










CHAPTER FOUR 


From the Diary 

1892 . 

I am so lonesome since Helen Simons died. 
But I could not help it. 

All the others cried so the whole way 
through the streets while we strewed flowers, 
and I will always keep the basket as a remem- 
brance of Helen’s death. But I thought it 
was so amusing to see the people leaning out 
of their windows and gaping after us. And I 
had Mistress Page’s big hat on, because I 
must needs have a black one, and I was com- 
pletely covered up by it and could not cry. 

I tried very hard, but during the whole 
time we stood at the grave the most funny 
thoughts came to me — (that was surely the 
[ 61 ] 


ANDREA 

devil whispering to me, said Edith; for she 
gives herself such airs, now that she takes 
catechetical instruction). 

And they cried out a lot of gibberish in 
Hebrew, which sounded like the parish spell- 
ing class. I had ten pieces of block sugar in 
my pocket, but I did not dare take a bite, 
while we were standing there. The coffin 
was awfully lovely with pure white flowers, 
and the sun shone. I thought so of pancakes. 
If only it had rained, I could perhaps have 
cried a little. But I remember the time when 
Helen fell into the fountain with all her clothes 
on, and the Mistress cried : “ She drowns, she 
drowns,” and we giggled. 

Jeannette plucked me by the sleeve, and 
said I ought to be ashamed of myself because 
I did not cry; but how could I help it ? 

And the rabbi said, that she should greet 
Father Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; and all 
the Jewish gentlemen cried: “Also from me, 
also from me.” And then it was that I be- 
[ 62 ] 


ANDREA 

gan to laugh so awfully, for I seemed to see 
Helen knock on the gate of Heaven and cour- 
tesy and say: “ They all send their greeting 
from home.” 

But they thought I was taken sick, and 
afterwards I began to cry most dreadfully, but 
that was because of embarrassment, and not 
at all on account of Helen. 

Mother thought it was so touching to see us 
strewing flowers, and she wept; but father 
said it was nonsense. They can never agree 
upon anything . 

But the old Jewish gentlemen were all sim- 
pering and snivelling, and Simons has five 
girls besides Helen! 

To-night I will read in the Bible about the 
Jews, for the Christians are so frivolous. 

But when I am going to die, I will scrape 
together a whole lot of money and buy choco- 
late to take with me in the coffin. I will beg 
father’s old clothes, for Musser’s are of no 
account when she is through with them. 

[ 63 ] 


ANDREA 


It is very odd indeed that I am going to die : 
I am so much alive; but then it will surely not 
be before I am twenty, and that leaves six 
years and one month — I really do not care 
to live any longer than that, for there is so 
much in the world that is sad and sorrowful. 

Helen was buried above her grandmother, 
but she was like a witch — ugh, I would 
rather lie by a very young girl. Fiddle-sticks ! 
they talk about Heaven and Hell. For I can 
surely come into Heaven with mother : she is 
so pious and goes to church regularly; but 
father . . . that is an impossibility. What 
should he do in Heaven ? 

I want to go with my father. 

Amen ! ! ! 

Father is lovely ! ! ! 

That book called “ Ghosts” is a strange 
one; there is not a single spectre in it; so for 
that matter father need not have advised me 
against reading it. 

But then it was a sin that I laughed. 

[ 64 ] 


ANDREA 


Jan., 1893. 

As soon as I become real grown-up, I will 
go to Copenhagen, which is a wicked place for 
a young lady to live in. 

I should prefer to be an artist or a poet, but 
rather an artist, and paint the loveliest tapes- 
tries ; for those here in the city are shockingly 
hideous ; they look like cotton goods and peas- 
ant-petticoats* 

First, I will paint a big, green meadow, with 
the clearwater running through it, and steeple- 
chases for the hunt, and flying swallows that 
eat insects *, and there shall be big forests and 
high mountains, snow-topped and crested 
with castles, like the curtain in the theatre. 
That tapestry shall be Used for a large arid 
lofty hall. Perhaps Jacobsen, the brewer, 
will buy it, for he has more money than the 
king. But his statues stand in another house. 
Father says, they are the best things in Copen- 
hagen, but I think that the King’s Square 
must be finer. 


[ 65 ] 


ANDREA 

Those houses that have towers shall have 
another kind of tapestry: a dark blue, just 
like what you see when you lie in your bed at 
night and look out upon the heavens and the 
Milky Way and the stars. It seems to me as 
if they were crawling away on a multitude of 
little bits of legs. 

Stars and golden bantams and butterflies 
are to me the loveliest things in the whole 
world. But those people must not laugh 
loud or cry out or click their heels, for then 
they would be out of keeping with the 
tapestry. 

Tyra Danebods Hall of Mourning was 
dark-blue — Mother’s gowns are always dark- 
blue; it resembles Sorrow and Night and 
Sadness — the dark-blue. But mother can- 
not help getting spots on them. 

My office shall be right in the centre of 
Prince Street, and when people come to order 
tapestries from me (for, of course, they will 
hear that mine are the most beautiful), then 
[ 66 ] 


ANDREA 

I’ll look them right in the eyes until I know 
them by heart, and then I’ll know to a dot 
what kind of tapestry will suit them. 

Every person has his colour, and that I can 
see by looking at him. Edith shall have pale 
lavender and Josephine the deepest red, 
which is redder than jelly — and Musser 
should really have something pale and som- 
bre, something like hyacinths. 

It is very important to know this, for then 
the rooms will be in harmony with the people 
who live in them. 

The poor shall not pay a farthing for them, 
but the rich shall pay a thousand crowns for 
one tapestry. Then I’ll give Musser money 
to go to Paris with, and when she comes home 
she’ll be the most beautiful lady in the whole 
city, so that father will gladly go out arm in 
arm with her. 

Father’s room shall be gray, but of the kind 
that shines and also looks like velvet. 

He should have a vaulted ceiling. 

[ 67 ] 


ANDREA 


Feb., 1893. 

Well, now, I have never heard the like of 
this! Lynges’ cook has one father who is a 
lieutenant, and one who is a butler, and one 
who is a police sergeant, and one who is a 
baker! 

It is written in the church book. 

She has said to Edith that she would swear 
that it is gospel truth. 

My! but that must be strange — I thought 
it was possible to have only one. 

Edith says that she has the red hair from 
the butler, and the flat nose from the officer. 
She is proud of him, but then he is dead. 

Suppose I, too had a different father here 
and there round about in the city ! But that is 
quite impossible. When I hold my hands 
around father’s brow I can feel that we two 
belong together just as much as two eyes. He 
can suffer the same things as I, and neither 
does he eat beans nor meat-soup. 

And then I could not touch any other man 

[«i 


ANDREA 

so — except, perhaps, Uncle Stephen; but 
then he is father’s brother. 

When he speaks, it is as if a hand were laid 
gently on my head. Oh, that he would al- 
ways come when I am sick, but of course he 
cannot know it beforehand. 

I wonder if it is also possible sometimes to 
have more than one mother ? That I could 
believe more readily, for there are many little 
things about mother which are not like me. 
She always draws such a deep breath before 
opening a door, as if she were afraid of some 
one inside. 

I will look it up in the big dictionary. It 
seems to me that it is only in books that one 
has two parents. 


May, 1893 . 

I would rather have a headache and a nose- 
bleed every day. I am so awfully afraid. 
And that is because I am so sick inside. Last 
night I sat up in bed and dared not sleep, and 
[ 69 ] 


ANDREA 

my heart jumped up and down just as it does 
when I begin to be sick. It is surely one of 
the big arteries that has burst. And mother 
is not at all nice to me; she goes about sulky 
and indifferent. 

She says that it is just as natural as nose- 
bleed. Oh, yes, thank you! Perhaps it 
would also be natural if suddenly a hole 
should break in my breast and the blood flow 
out. 

My hands have become so white, and my 
eyes and heart pain me so. Father has given 
me a lace fan, but what shall I do with that 
when I am going to die ? 

I would almost rather have cramps, for 1 
know what that is. It is queer, but I cannot 
keep from thinking of giving birth to children. 

I should like to run away from myself, the 
whole thing is so dreary. 

If only it were the pulse-artery on the wrist, 
then one could see it. 

I would go with mother to church on Sun- 
[ 70 ] 


ANDREA 


day and even dust her room, if it would only 
stop. Not even father takes any notice of it; 
he merely says I must be very quiet. 

But that is the way when one is often sick : 
then there is no one who considers it of any 
account. 


[ 71 ] 


CHAPTER FIVE 


June, 1893. 

To-day, I read “A Visit” by Brandes, not 
by Georg, for that is his great brother, but 
by Edward. Father did not want me to read 
it, because it was not for children. But I 
understood it all, and quite agreed with Flo- 
rizel. I know full well that they kissed each 
other in that hotel and slept in the same room, 
but then he was handsome and wonderful, and 
I think that most likely I should have done 
the same as Florizel. 

For just think of sleeping entirely alone in 
a big, strange hotel ! 

I am certain that he talked like Uncle Ste- 
phen, so sweet and low, like the sound of 
tinkling sheep bells on a summer’s eve. 

[72] 


ANDREA 

Now , no one shall call me a child: why, in 
olden days one was often married before one 
was fifteen years old. Ethel is no more 
grown-up than I, although she is one year 
and five months older. And she is stupid 
and poor in reading, but she can play most 
exquisitely. 

It seems to me, after all, that it was better 
to live when I was quite young, then the 
thoughts whisked off of themselves. 

Oh! that I were dead and gone. Then 
they would surely sit by my grave together, 
hand-in-hand, and become good friends again 
— which they must have been, for otherwise 
they could not have begotten me. For that 
comes of love alone. 

God ! What a stupid child I was last year 
when I thought that one got children simply 
by thinking of one another. But Florizel 
got a child, and Brandes forgets entirely to 
talk about that, which was the most embar- 
rassing part of it all. 

[ 73 ] 


ANDREA 

It is not to be endured. It is as if they 
were bartering for me : they both want to buy 
me. 

Edith’s father and mother sleep in one 
room, of course, and Astra’s parents also, and 
Jeannette’s ; and my mother does not snore, 
decidedly not. I have listened three times; 
she sleeps as quietly as a mouse. And as 
she does not snore, or walk in her sleep, or 
scream at night, why, father surely need not 
sleep alone in his own room. 

It is exceedingly embarrassing for me and 
for mother, and it looks so poor and forlorn 
when one has a husband and is married to him. 

Ethel says that is the way one does if one 
wants to avoid having many children, and 
that may be true; but, then, we have only me, 
and two — three more would certainly not 
matter. The riding-master should have moved 
up into the attic long ago, then he would sure- 
ly have had five children less, and then they 
need not eat bare bread. 

[ 74 ] 


ANDREA 

If only mother would remember to have her 
hair parted straight, and to keep her collar 
from slipping up, and to have the glasses nice- 
ly polished; for such things vex Ethel’s father 
also. And as for me, my wife might just as 
well have her hair parted wrong, and I had 
just as leave wipe the glass with my napkin. 
The other day I parted my hair outrage- 
ously crooked on purpose, but father simply 
laughed, and did not scold in the least. 

Mother is a real popinjay, but father might 
be a little in love with her, anyway, and kiss 
her on the hand. That is the most charming 
thing possible. And she is, I am sure, very 
much in love with him. 

But I cannot bear always to have her 
questioning me as to what we talk about on 
our little excursions, for there really is not 
anything to tell, especially when we do not 
speak a word, but only run pell-mell out 
over the country road. 

Father is distinguished and proud and all 
[ 75 ] 


ANDREA 

that, but mother looks like Limping Mary 
when she begs old clothes. And I will never 
have confidential friends when I am married, 
for my husband surely will not like that, and 
besides it is somewhat common. 

That Edward Brandes must surely resem- 
ble my father, except that he, of course, has 
an awiully big nose like the old Jewish gentle- 
men here in the city; but if father wanted 
to, he could easily write books like that about 
remarkable people, the reading of which 
makes one wise. 

And father has surely experienced a great 
deal in his youth ; but a father will not speak 
about that, not even to his own little girl, 
which is me. 


Sept., 1893. 

Knud is only a boy, but he is so violent. 
He said in all seriousness that he would kill 
me if I did not marry him in eight years, 
when he becomes a minister. It gave me 
[76] 


ANDREA 

such a queer feeling, as if some one had drawn 
a red hot darning needle up and down my 
back. Ugh ! 

He said I should be a volcano when I am 
twenty years old! Now, what can he know 
about that? 

And besides I do not care about exploding 
mountains that are black, and smoke like a 
lamp. No, he should rather compare me 
to a marble statue or an alabaster statue 
that came to life. 

I will not marry a minister, for he must be 
so serious. I will not marry at all — it is not 
necessary. Uncle Stephen is not married, 
either. 

Now how can it be ? Ordinarily I can only 
hear what people say; it dribbles along as 
from the spout of a drain pipe, just so; always 
the same. But what he says, that I can see 
— the same as if I looked through coloured 
glass. It resembles a multitude of small rain- 
bows . . . one would think he had a colour 
[ 77 ] 


ANDREA 

box in his mouth. It is sheer nonsense, but 
it is true, nevertheless. And then he speaks 
the words so softly, as if they were of velvet. 

If Christ spoke like that to His disciples, I 
can well understand that they remembered it 
and could write it down. I also could write 
everything that he has said to me. That is 
not so much, of course; for he talks mostly 
with father, and is here such a short time. 


Sept., 1893. 

To-day I made the worst blunder possible. 
For we had gone to the pavilion, and I ordered 
chocolate with whipped cream and French 
tarts and sandwiches, and I did not have a 
cent to pay with. The others thought that I 
was treating because it was I who proposed it 
— and then we had only seventeen cents alto- 
gether. The waiter noticed it by our actions, 
for he continued to hover about our table, and 
we did not know what we should do for shame. 

[ 78 ] 


ANDREA 

We ate and we ate, and the food stuck in our 
throats, and we were fiery red in the face. They 
put the blame on me . . . but oh, dear, I was 
hungry, and the sun shone, and then I thought 
that the others could lend me the money. 

At last Ethel and Jeannette went off to raise 
the money, while Agnes and I remained sitting 
there like hostages ; and we must needs find 
something to do. So we ordered more sand- 
wiches ; and for over an hour we continued to 
eat sandwiches. I began to think they would 
never come back, and Agnes commenced to 
whimper so that I had to pinch her in the arm 
so that she would not cry. 

And then finally they came, and we tipped 
the waiter a whole crown; but Ethel was cross 
because she had been scolded so by her father. 
And the waiter stood and grinned at us. 

And besides I broke my hour-glass, and 
Musser had gone to bed, and father did not 
eat dinner at home. 

It was a day of misfortunes. 

[ 79 ] 


ANDREA 


Oct., 1893. 

Knud is an absurd idiot. He came to bor- 
row my French dictionary, and down in the 
hall he kissed me on the mouth. I could 
smell that he had rubbed himself with 
pomade, or some such servant-girl stuff. 

Ugh! it was disgusting! I would as soon 
have kissed a rat. But now he knows that I do 
not care the least bit for him. 

And why does mother always sit gossiping 
with those stupid ladies ? The way they talk 
about their husbands! God have mercy on 
mother if she says one single bad word about 
father. 

Then she knows she irritates him with 
those ladies, and he goes out as soon as they 
come — and I have to run in and out with 
sugar and cream. 

“She resembles a Madonna,” they say. I 
could say, “Hold your tongue,” to them. 

They are so vulgar! 

Something is surely wrong. Musser is as 
[80] 


ANDREA 

melancholy as a rainy day, and they glower at 
each other in a way to make one tremble. But 
I can get whatever I point at. 

If only I lived with father one day and with 
mother the other, for they are so pleasant each 
by themselves, but when they are together they 
chill me and make me weary of it all. 

They should make a confidant of me. But 
when father and I are alone I forget every- 
thing, for he is so wise and wonderful. 


March, 1894. 

Oh ! that the moon were entirely burnt out, 
or that it would crack and explode. It is the 
only thing in the whole world that I hate, ex- 
cept rats; and it is just as if it knew it. Even 
though I put myself far down under the quilt, 
I can notice it. It is like a wicked spirit; it 
goes into my head. It is much worse than 
fever and worse than opium. For I know very 
well that I am awake and that it cannot reach 
[ 81 ] 


ANDREA 

me, but I am so afraid of that horrible 
light. 

No matter what I think of, I think of some- 
thing else on top of that, and on top of it all I 
am so afraid that I would rather die. If it 
were possible, and I were not fifteen years old, 
I should be allowed to sleep with Musser and 
lie in her bed — then it would surely pass 
away. 

In all books they say the moonlight is beau- 
tiful. No, the night should be still and peace- 
ful, and it is not so when the moon comes. It 
is as if it makes a noise that bewitches me. 
But perhaps that is because I am going to die 
and am really not fit to live. If father knew 
it, then I believe he would surely stay with 
me the whole night, for he cannot endure my 
being sad. 

That moon is of no earthly use; it only 
makes trouble. And I become so peevish 
when it is full moon, and say so much that is 
not nice. And I dream such awful dreams. 

[ 82 ] 


ANDREA 

Now I will close the shutters and draw the 
curtain, but as soon as I put out the light the 
moon will come creeping in. 

It is not good to live when one is sad and 
afraid. 


June, 1894. 

To-day the riding-master came with jas- 
mines for mother, and she was near to faint- 
ing from the fragrance, but she continued to 
stick her nose down into them and say that 
they were beautiful. 

And he looked at her with saucer-eyes, like 
the big dog, and she laughed in that embar- 
rassed way — I nearly pitied them. But I 
could not restrain myself, and ran into father 
and said that Musser had a tryst, and that we 
must hit upon something. 

Father was not jealous — not in the least. 
We sent Anne after two huge ginger-cake 
hearts with verses in the centre; and then I 
carried in the tea. 


[ 83 ] 


ANDREA 

But it was near to becoming serious. 

Oh, God! — they acted as if nothing had 
happened, and the riding-master began to 
nibble his heart; but then he read the verses, 
and he became confused and began to cough, 
and Musser was very busy smelling the jas- 
mines again. 

Truly it was spiteful, but it was so laugha- 
ble. He is as infatuated with her as if he 
were a young man. And then he has eight 
chubby children. 

Now I am sorry for it, for afterwards Musser 
cried and said it was a sin, as the riding-mas- 
ter is a poor, wretched man. 

But then he should not use his money 
with which to buy flowers for other men’s 
wives. Father never buys flowers for his 
wife . . . but neither does he buy any for 
Musser. And I get carnations every day, as 
long as they are in bloom. But, then, that is 
not nice, either! 


[ 84 ] 


ANDREA 

We are not good; we are wicked, all of us. 
Now I will no longer take carnations from 
father if he does not also buy flowers for 
mother. That is decided. 


June, 1894 . 

Just to think that I am a moon-baby. So 
is mother. But not a person knows what a 
moon-baby is, and one must not tell it to any 
one, for they only laugh and say that it is all 
nonsense. 

It is so very unusual! 

Mother used to cry at night, so that Grand- 
mother Voldby had to get up and light candles 
all over the house, and make coffee for her. 
It is only girls; boys cannot be moon-babies. 

Mother also feels the moon shining on her 
skin, even though she closes her eyes, and 
she says it is as if poison enters the blood, so 
that the thoughts become sick. 

And that is perfectly true. I lie and think 
about death; I can hear it, I can feel it, I 
[ 85 ] 


ANDREA 

can see it. I believe Death sits up in the moon, 
and that is the reason why I am so afraid. 

How wonderful it must be to dare to walk 
in the moonlight, or to sit at the window and 
look right out upon it, or to meet it in the 
woods. When I was a child I surely was not 
afraid of it. It seems to me that I can remem- 
ber rowing out on the river, and the whole 
water became white as a lily. 

Mother’s real mother was also like that — 
so Grandmother Voldby has told me. And 
when she was going to die, and mother was 
only three years old, she sprang out of bed and 
shattered the window-panes with her hands 
because she wanted to beat the moon to death. 
But mother says that it is a disease to be a 
moon-baby. This is just like me, but then 
mother never has cramps. 

When Josephine has it she becomes so ma- 
licious, but we never do; and she is not afraid 
of the moon. It is not so pleasant, after all, 
to be a girl. 


[ 86 ] 


ANDREA 

If I could only understand what the moon 
can be good for! 


July, 1894 . 

I want to be a poet. 

I decided upon it last night and did not go 
to bed, but wrote verses. 

To be sure, it is not so very difficult; it is 
much harder to keep awake the whole night, 
and the great poets always wrote best at 
night. 

That is what Balzac did, but father says he 
drank a great deal of coffee, one cup after the 
other, without cream; and I did not get any 
coffee. 

I stole up to the attic and peeped out at the 
stars, through the window in the roof. Then 
I drank water and ate chocolates, but that 
makes one sleepy. I became very cold tow- 
ards morning. 

Another night I will go out into the 
woods, and walk out there all alone — entirely 

[ 87 ] 


ANDREA 


alone — all night. I think out there it must 
be like a dream. 

Perhaps I may also go out into the church- 
yard so as to accustom myself to it, but I 
cannot bear the odour of dead bodies. 

It is best for me to wait four years, until I 
am twenty; for a poet must have experienced 
a great deal. But it seems to me that it 
might be easier to hit upon something thrill- 
ing, and so be saved all the trouble of living 
through so many experiences. And Uncle 
Stephen says that one only lives to experience 
sorrow. 

As for that, I could easily write a romance 
about Josephine, or a play about father and 
mother, but that would be something to weep 
over. 

Father has told me that De Maupassant 
waited ten years before he made a book; 
and every day he went to school to the 
man who created Madam Bovary, whom 
father loves. But he is too difficult for me 
[ 88 ] 


ANDREA 

in French. I cannot afford to wait ten 
years. 

But father and mother shall not suspect 
that I know I am soon to die. That would be 
a sin. 

If only I could place the semicolon and ex- 
clamation mark where they should be; for that 
is not easy, and one must needs know that. 
Father says my commas are good enough. 

In four years, when every one least expects 
it, there will come a thick, thick book by me. 
It shall be called : 

THE SORROWS 
OF 
ONE 

WHO IS DEAD. 

For I shall die soon after, and if that is 
printed on the outside of the book, with, per- 
haps, a little band of mourning, then every 
one in the whole kingdom of Denmark, and 
[ 89 ] 


ANDREA 

also all the poets, will read it, and father and 
mother. 

It shall be about them, and be so true that, 
they will love one another the more for 
the reading of it. Therein I will tell how sad 
I have been every single day as long as I can 
remember, because they did not kiss one an- 
other as one should when one is happy. Then 
mother will write an anonymous letter and 
thank the author, but I will not betray myself. 

No, that I will not. 

One does not earn very much money by 
being a poet, but then perhaps I can paint 
tapestries besides. The money I get for the 
book mother shall have for a silk dress; and 
then her teeth need filling. 

It is stupid that I should have such strong 
teeth that the dentist only laughs at me when 
they are to be looked after, and yet I shall 
have no use for them; while mother, who will 
chew for many years, should have such soft 
teeth. 


[ 90 ] 


ANDREA 


August, 1894. 

Mother opens father’s letters and reads them. 
She holds them over steaming water. I saw it 
very distinctly, but I did not say anything. 

There is so much that I do not understand. 

There is so much sorrow in the world. 

She probably has a big debt, and father al- 
ways gets angry over the bills. But even so, I 
would not open my husband’s letters ; I would 
rather sell a few silver spoons, or something of 
that sort, to pay the debt with. 

I will be ever so economical and never again 
ask to be taken out driving, and I will gladly 
wear black gloves, for they last much better 
than white. 

I will indeed help my poor mother. 

I wonder whether her mother was sad be- 
cause she was born. For I believe mother 
was sad on account of me, and that is why I 
have not the strength to live. 

No one can become strong and healthy 
where everything is so dull and cheerless. 

[ 91 ] 


ANDREA 

And when one’s own mother sits still and 
sighs and cannot sleep at night! 

But I will ask Dr. Krarup for a great deal 
of morphine . . . for I will gladly endure 
pain if only my mother can sleep. 

It burns inside of my head from all my 
thinking and speculating. I believe they 
would like to cut me in two . . . but then I 
suppose they would not agree as to who 
should have the head, and who the feet. 


[ 92 ] 


CHAPTER SIX 


Sept., 1894 . 

I hate father! I will not see him, I will not 
kiss him, I will not sit by him in the evenings, 
nor walk with him, nor anything. 

He might just as well be real common. My 
poor, dear little Musser! It is nauseating to 
think of it — those words he uttered. I can 
hear them repeated constantly — again and 
again, again and again. 

“Mistress . . . with my mistress ... I 
was, of course, with my mistress.” 

Mother asked so softly: “Where were you 
last evening, you came home so late ? ” 

“I was, of course, with my mistress — 
where else ? ” 

Mother flung herself right down on the floor 
[ 93 ] 


ANDREA 

and cried as I do when I am attacked with 
the cramps. 

And then he said: “Why didn’t you follow 
and see where I went to ? I expected that of 
you!” 

I pretended I was sleeping, but I could not 
draw a breath, for I feared I should cry. 

But we will run away from him, to another 
country, Musser and I. I would rather eat a 
spider than hear father say that. 

He has a mistress, one whom he loves. 

And that is why he has moved out of the 
sleeping room; and at night, when it is en- 
tirely quiet, he goes out through the dark 
streets to her house, while my mother lies here 
at home and weeps. It is so small and com- 
mon, and not a word has he confided to me. 

I have not eaten a bite since; I would 
rather starve to death. I have locked and 
bolted my door, and though he knocks his 
hands off, I will not open: I will never 
open. 


[ 94 ] 


ANDREA 

We will go far away from him. In a trice 
I’ll write a romance, and it shall be called: 
The Faithless! and shall be about him and 
about . . . her . 

In the innermost part of my heart I hate 
him, but inside of that again I still continue 
to love him. 

She must surely be beautiful, that lady, 
more beautiful than all others, even than Jos- 
ephine. But it is strange that I do not know 
her. 

Oh! little father, dear, lovable little fa- 
ther ... if it were only a dream, you might 
pull out all my teeth. 

It only is wanting that she kisses him on the 
eyes, that only. Or that he also gives her silk 
stockings for Lent or Martinsmas. 

But I shall find her. 

I shall smell of all the ladies, and the one 
who has the fragrance of old roses about 
her, like father’s clothes, she it is. I will spit 
right in her eyes. No, that I will not. I 
[ 95 ] 


ANDREA 

will look at her until she sinks down on her 
knees and falls over in the gutter. Then she 
can lie there, the . . . 

But happy . . . that I shall never be any 
more. And never more shall we two sit 
together in the gloaming and dream aloud, 
and never again shall we read French to- 
gether. 

But suppose he loves her so much that he 
could easily do without me ? And if she were 
like Josephine ? for Josephine one cannot get 
angry with! 

I am only a little girl, and I shall soon die; 
why, then, must I have such a heavy sorrow P 
I wish that I might die to-night. 

Mother says that I am lazy and peevish, 
but I shall never be so any more. 

I should so much like to go into her, but I 
do not know what I could say. 

For there is nothing so terrible as a mis- 
tress. 


[ 96 ] 


ANDREA 


Sept., 1894. 

We cannot go away, for Musser has no 
money, and she does not want to, and I haven’t 
any, either. Oh, what shall we do, what shall 
we do ! Anne is putting the clothes in the 
wash, and Marie is baking cakes — they do 
not suspect anything. 

Just to think that mother does not believe 
that he has a mistress — why, he said it with 
his own mouth. And now they pretend that 
they are friends. Father does not cast down 
his eyes, and he looks the same as before. But 
when I look in another direction, I notice 
father furtively glancing over at me. I do not 
speak to him, and I do not kiss him ; but when 
we left the table I looked at him so that it 
pained in my head. 

To-day he has not been with her, that is cer- 
tain, for I have watched the whole day. And 
I smell of all his letters; but, of course, she 
does not dare to write. 

Oh, I could wish that Musser would also 
[97] 


ANDREA 


begin to deceive him, even though it were 
only with the old riding-master. But if it 
were mother who had gotten herself a lover 
whom she kissed — it would not be half so 
dreadful; for mother often does something 
that is not quite right. She gossips about peo- 
ple, but father never does that . . * oh, my 
poor, poor mother, and my dearest, lovely 
father ! 

I cannot endure it. But I will ferret it out; 
I’ll search all his drawers and take her letters 
and send them to her in a large, yellow 
envelope, which signifies falseness, and inside 
I will simply write: You are a hussy, and 
we despise you, and if you come up to my 
father you’ll be flung down stairs. 

Last night I became sick, and I thought I 
should die, but I did not care, for it is all so 
disagreeable — just as if I had my mouth full 
of dishwater. 

I do not believe a God really exists, and if 
he does, he is only a wicked old man who 
[ 98 ] 


ANDREA 

makes trouble. I have burnt my fine hymn- 
book. 

Madam Bovary may have deceived her 
husband, but he was mean and detestable, 
and then it was in a book, and I admire her, 
anyway; no, it is much, much worse when a 
father deceives his wife. 


Sept., 1894 . 

I am so sorry. Now I will never again make 
fun of the riding-master; he is good, and sure- 
ly just as unhappy as I. I had never been to 
see him, for no one ever goes there, as his wife 
is paralyzed ; and he is poor because he did not 
become colonel. But I wanted him to deceive 
father, and so I went out there. It was so dirty 
and horrible, and they dried the wash in the 
dining-room, and that was because the clothes 
were worn and they were ashamed to hang 
them out — that I could well see. And the 
riding-master was all alone, busy making 
[ 99 ] 


Lof C. 


ANDREA 

gruel; and the children were at school, except 
the two little ones, who were begrimed and 
untidy. 

He was very embarrassed, and I began to 
cry. But he would not do it. He said it 
would be a sin. But then I said that when 
one was poor, one was allowed to steal. “ No, 
little Andrea, that one is not : I am so poor 
that my soul and body hungers — but to steal 
and cheat, that I cannot.” 

“Yes, but, then, don’t you love Musser?” 
I asked. 

“I sympathize with your mother, and she 
sympathizes with me; we are poor, both of us !” 

Mother surely is not as poor as that; we 
have never starved, and she has many fine 
dresses; but she does not take care of them, 
and that is why they get shabby so quickly, 
which I did not dare say. 

And I told him everything, and he prom- 
ised that my secret should go with him into 
the grave. 


[ 100 ] 


ANDREA 

He had big, grey slippers on, and no collar, 
and he clutched the soup spoon the whole 
time, just as if it were a sabre. 

He was surely right in saying that one should 
not steal. It smelled very badly there, and 
not at all as it does at Seamstress Hansen’s. 

Sept., 1894. 

Dear little Virgin Mary ! I will thank thee 
and bless thee and say a prayer to thee every 
single day in my life. I think I shall become 
a Catholic, and I have heard them singing so 
wonderfully in the Catholic Church to-day. 
And now I have hung a little red, everlasting 
lamp over my bed, which burns only two 
cents’ worth of oil a day. And in back of 
it a picture of a Madonna on the wall, and I 
will have a crucifix on my breast. 

I will be faithful and go to church at least 
twice a week, both summer and winter. 

For I am so glad that one can say: “I am 
happy in my faith.” Therefore, I will thank 
[ 101 ] 


ANDREA 


thee, thou good Virgin Mary. Josephine was 
also a Catholic when she was in the cloister in 
France; and that was easy enough, when she 
talked with nuns every day ; but now she does 
not care anything more about it. But I will 
be faithful to it my whole life. 

I really did not think in the bottom of my 
heart that father was such a one. I have 
asked his pardon a thousand times, and I have 
kissed the pillow upon which he sleeps, and I 
have told him about Knud, and that I wrote 
a Diary, and that I want to be a poet — for it 
is so expensive to set up a tapestry factory. 
But it is all far from enough, far from it. 

I could fly with joy. If it were only winter, 
then I could go skating; but to-morrow I will 
go with father out into the woods, and father 
shall swing me a whole hour in the big swing, 
under the arbour. I feel to-day as one does 
when one swings high up in the tree tops ; it 
makes one shudder, but it is so lovely. 

And I have cried with joy. It is the first 
[ 102 ] 


ANDREA 

time I have done it. It often happens in 
books, but I thought it an invention of the 
poets : but it is the simple truth. 

Father and I have had a dance in here, we 
two, entirely alone, and we danced the Minuet 
(which father does not know at all) and drank 
Madeira far out into the night. And he surely 
quite forgot that I must not dance under any 
considerations. 

It is so wonderful, that I cannot understand 
that it is really true. I sat in here and was so 
disconsolate, and then I heard father go up and 
down, up and down, like a guard on duty. It 
was my intention not to open my door, not 
even if I had to die of sorrow. But then it 
became perfectly quiet, and I had not heard 
father leave. My heart beat so dreadfully, 
and it was as if everything became black be- 
fore my eyes. And then I had to look. And 
it was dark, but I could hear father draw his 
breath, so sadly and quiet-like. And then I 
flew over to him — I could guess where he 
[ 103 ] 


ANDREA 

sat — and he took me up and carried me, and 
we cried and we laughed, and we cried again, 
and we hushed each other. 

Father rocked me in his arms as he did when 
I was a little child. It was wonderful. It was 
wonderful. For there is something that is much 
more than love; that is the way it is with us. 

So that was all nothing but stupid talk ! He 
said it was only something one said when one 
became angry, and he will never be angry 
again ; but even if I were very angry, I could 
not think of saying that I had a mistress, or 
that I had killed some one. 

But father asked my forgiveness, because 
he had made me so unhappy. It was almost 
embarrassing. 

I have lain my ruby ring on his pillow with 
two red carnations in it, so that he can smell 
it, and he’ll surely guess who it is from. But 
Goldsmith Larsen shall engrave in it: “From 
your Beloved.” That is me . That is the 
most delightful of all. 

[ 104 ] 


ANDREA 

But we entirely forgot Musser. It was a 
crying shame that we should have forgotten 
her, but then we did. And then at last, when 
we thought of her, we peeped in, but she was 
sleeping; she had probably taken a potion. 

We are agreed that I am to be a Catholic* 
Father thinks it is beautiful and agreeable — 
but perhaps it is only to humour me that he 
says so. And then he would rather have me 
go to the Catholic Church, which is much 
warmer in the winter, than trudge with 
Musser up to the cathedral, where there is a 
draught. 

Unfortunately, I do not think I am fit to be 
pious. I have such a desire to kick up a 
noise and to laugh out loud just when I am 
most in the mood to think of religion. But I 
will try to believe it all, even though it does 
resemble pirate-romances. 

I have father’s handkerchief next to my 
heart. And we presented mother with a fine 
parasol, and we ate breakfast with her in the 
[ 105 ] 


ANDREA 


pavilion, and she was in high spirits. But 
father and I, we held each other’s hands and 
looked at each other, and now I am certain 
that he has not deceived us. 


New Year, 1895. 

Now I have been up three days. But I 
like it much better in bed. 

Oh, it was so snug and warm! And to 
think, he travelled a whole night and a day 
down from Vienna just to be with me during 
Christmas. With me ! To be with me during 
Christmas! A whole night and a whole 
day! 

We can eat just as many gingernuts as 
mother can bake . . . now ... as for that 
matter, so can she. 

It is so delightful to live. It is so quiet and 
delightful. 

Now, I really think that father was jealous 
of Uncle Stephen because we had so much to 
talk about. 


[ 106 ] 


ANDREA 

And, then, he holds my hands while he 
talks. 

It is as if a hundred thousand little, white 
bells were ringing round about in the air and 
in my ears and in my heart. 

I should so very much like to see the houses 
that he builds. That must be ever so much 
finer than to be a poet. Made entirely of 
stone — one on top of the other — and they can 
stand for seven hundred years, if they are 
well built. But his hands are, nevertheless, 
perfectly white. 

The man who has built all the big 
houses in Vienna is also Danish, but he 
is dead. 

I cannot realize that I have been sick for 
two months. But when one has a fever one 
does not know anything. Oh, but now . . . 
now I will live ! 

“For when it comes again, then it is all 
over with the little girl . . . with the warm 
. . . warm . . . heart!” 

[ 107 ] 


ANDREA 


With the warm , warm heart ! 

Why did he say that ? What did he mean 
by that ? 


February, 1895. 

I must not go skating. 

I must not dance. 

I must not take walks with Lieutenant 
Dahl. 

I must not drink wine. 

I must not read. 

I must not write letters. 

I must not take gymnastics. 

I must not take shower baths. 

I must not jump. 

I must not go out in the cold. 

I must not wear silk stockings. 

I must not draw, sew, cry, cough, have a 
pain in the stomach, catch a cold, go to the 
carnival or to the theatre — I must not do 
anything. 

It is Dr. Krarup, the horrible, nasty, dis- 
[ 108 ] 


ANDREA 

gusting animal torturer, Dr. Krarup, who has 
put it into Musser’s head. 

But now I’ll cry until I get permission. 
Then they can’t deny me anything. 


[ 109 ] 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


July, 1895. 

Josephine is to remain a whole month. It 
doesn’t matter if I get sick afterward. We 
will amuse ourselves and have fun, and we’ll 
play comedies in the evening. 

Salome must have looked like her, I think. 

If Josephine wanted a head on a silver plat- 
ter she would get it, I am sure. No one can 
say no to Josephine. 

She can do everything that she wants to. 
But she is covetous. She would have all the 
men who exist infatuated with her. 

But when she says anything like that, 
such a strange expression comes over her face. 
It is as if the moon were suddenly shining 
upon her. 


[ 110 ] 


ANDREA 

Yes, it makes me quite afraid and dizzy. 

She is so very strong. 

Yesterday she bit me in the neck because I 
said that I thought as much of Uncle Stephen 
as of her. But afterwards she cried and said 
that I was the only one in the world who cared 
for her for her own sake. 

And yet father and mother do, and many 
others, in fact all those who love her. 

Josephine hates Uncle Stephen. She wishes 
that he were dead. 

It is too bad that they can not care for one 
another, the same as I care for them. But 
Josephine has surely found out that Uncle 
Stephen called her “A Heartless Flirt.” It 
is a foolish saying, “A Heartless Flirt.” 


July, 1895. 

After dinner she allowed me to read her 
letters; she has over two hundred, and they 
lie all jumbled up in the bottom of her trunk. 

[in] 


ANDREA 

It was terribly interesting, but very sad. 
There were some who were only twenty years 
old, and one about fifty, and many, many 
others. They cannot live without her, and 
they will kneel in the dust at her feet. 

Kneel in the dust at her feet ! 

I have given her two pairs of grey silk stock- 
ings, for there were big holes in her own. 

And she has kissed every one of them, but 
one could not guess that from her mouth. It 
is so little and delicate, and she smiles like a 
little girl. 

Her father has whipped her many, many 
times and locked her in and put her to 
bed. And then they have given her noth- 
ing but milk and bread, the same as their 
dog. 

But she also came very near to shooting 
herself — and that is what I would have 
done. 

But even though they beat her to death, she 
cannot stop. 


[ 112 ] 


ANDREA 

When she was a little girl she lay at night 
and cried, and bit her pillow because she did 
not have any one to kiss. 

She cannot stop. It is just like me when I 
hear dance music and cannot keep from trip- 
ping in time to the measure. 

So, it is not her fault. Things like that are 
inherited; she says so herself. 

But the worst of it is that she does not care 
in the least for them, and she will not tnarry 
one of them. But she would like to marry all 
of them. 

She is wonderful ; and, then, she is so lovely ! 

In father’s room she is perfectly quiet and 
sits on a footstool at his feet and kisses him on 
the hand. But father always says: “Stop 
those tricks, Josephine: here you are among 
friends! ” 

The other day she read the serinon to Mus- 
ser and sang psalms; but afterwards she 
sang a ditty that sounded dreadful, although 
I do not think I quite understood it. 

[ 113 ] 


ANDREA 


July, 1895. 

I love Josephine just as she is. 

She has snow-white hands and feet, but 
otherwise she is sunburnt all over. She re- 
sembles a yellow cat with white paws. 

It looks so comical. 

When we have company she courtesies and 
casts down her eyes, and makes her voice so 
soft and fine — the colonel’s wife says she re- 
sembles a lovely nun. But, then, I can’t 
understand why they say so many bad things 
about her. 

Josephine says that she acts like a magnet 
on all men. 

When one holds a magnet close to the 
nose it tickles as if flies were crawling 
inside. 

But when I have a cold it also tickles in my 
nose. 

Josephine says that even though they hate 
her they cannot keep from looking at her and 
thinking of her. 


[ 114 ] 


ANDREA 

But I do not believe that Uncle Stephen 
thinks of her. 

Josephine says that the man she marries 
shall have a scorpion-whip to beat her with 
when she does anything wrong. 

Shoemaker Olesen whipped his wife with a 
strap — heigh-ho ! 

Josephine is different from all the rest. 

Scorpion-whip! That is surely the one 
from the Bible and the tortures of the ancient 
Egyptians. 


July, 1895. 

Now we have wagered. 

It was not my intention. It was not with my 
free will. But Josephine is so strong, so strong. 

I would give her the ring if it might be 
undone, but she does not want to. 

We have wagered on a living heart . . . 
what shall I do, what shall I do! 

I have betrayed him. 

She is going up to greet him from me, but I 
[115] 


ANDREA 


must not tell him about our wager. And I 
cannot break my word. 

Why can’t I do that ? 

We talked about him so long, and it was 
night, and the moon shone, and then I went 
over to Josephine because I was afraid. 

We discussed all his characteristics. 

And then she said: “He is not like the rest; 
him I will have.” 

If only I had kept quiet. But I could not. 
I was so certain that Uncle Stephen could 
never love her. 

And now . . . and now he shall love her. 
And when she has won, she is going to marry 
another, for Uncle Stephen shall love her all 
his life. 

That is Josephine. 

But she is so strong. 

I have said to her that I shall soon die, 
and that it is so awful to wager on another 
person. 

But Josephine says that she dares wager 
[ 116 ] 


ANDREA 

on Death and on Hell, for she knows that she 
will win. 

Josephine says that her will is warmer than 
fire, but I am a pale little thing, because I 
am sick. 

A pale little thing ... in that she may be 
right ; but I have so much sorrow. 

Josephine knows everything, she can see 
everything. She also said, last night : “ Your 
father does not care in the least for your 
mother.” 

But it gives me so much pain to think of 
this and that. 

We have wagered . . . 

August, 1895. 

On Monday Uncle Stephen comes to Den- 
mark. I am so afraid, so afraid of Josephine. 

I dreamt she bit me in the heart because I 
cared the most for him. And the blood ran 
out. But when I was about to die Uncle 
Stephen came and drove her away. But her 
[117] 


ANDREA 

teeth, all her white, mouse-like teeth, remained 
and gnawed at my heart. 

I will lie awake to-night and think so in- 
tently about Uncle Stephen. And then when 
I can feel that he thinks of me I will tell him 
all — and he will believe it is a dream. 

Father, mother, Uncle Stephen, and Jos- 
ephine . . . 

I am going to die. 

When she has been up there, he’ll surely 
write a letter: “Yes, I have made a mistake: 
Josephine is entirely different; she is lovely.” 

He will come to love her, but she’ll marry 
the man with the scorpion-whip. 

Then Uncle Stephen will sit and shake his 
head the same as mother does, and go around 
in the room looking for nothing, and lie awake 
at night. 

And that is my fault; for I have wagered on 
his heart. 

I have wagered on his heart. 

A thought can be so long that it is without 
[ 118 ] 


ANDREA 


an end. I have three thoughts without an 
end — the one twines about the other. They 
are three snakes that stick and stick their ugly 
darts into the peace of my days and the dreams 
of my nights. Three thoughts without an 
end! 

The one is Death, and the other my wager, 
and the third . . . the third, my father and 
mother. 


[ 119 ] 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


August, 1895. 

I am not at all afraid of dying here at home. 
Here it is so snug and warm, and they are 
constantly around me. I will be brave ; but 
if father weeps ... if father . . . 

Little, beloved father, I want to ask you 
for something. Stay with me the first night 
out there, only the first, only the first. I am 
such a stranger out there, I am so afraid that 
they will talk to me, all those down there. It 
is so gruesome; they have nothing on but that 
white garment, like paper. They should 
lie in a warm, fur cloak, a lovely, warm fur 
cloak. 

Do that, father; stay with me out there. 
And if the moon shines, then you must talk to 
[ 120 ] 


ANDREA 

me the whole time, the whole time. I am not 
afraid to die, but I am afraid of that white 
moon, and I am afraid of being alone out 
there. 

It is much worse than being alone in 
a strange country. I am certain that I can 
understand all that they are lying think- 
ing of down in the ground — all the old 
and all the young and all the little, 
little children. We can understand each 
other, but we cannot make one another 
happy. 

And then we try to sleep, but we all sigh 
uneasily, and every time the bells ring we wake 
up and weep again. It is like a big prison- 
house, and we are shut in in little bits of cells, 
much smaller than those the drunken people 
are put in at night over at the jail : and I can 
hear that there is some one on the side of me, 
and in front of me, and in back of me, and 
all over; but we cannot see one another nor 
touch each other. 


[ 121 ] 


ANDREA 


August, 1895 . 

I dreamt that I was dead, and it was really 
not so very bad. 

Right on top of my grave there sat an old 
man and played the accordion. He was 
blind, and he did not know whether it was 
night or day, and so he continued to play. 

While lying there I thought of Uncle Ste- 
phen. 

Oh, that there always were such an old 
blind man who sat and played for the dead, 
day and night, summer and winter, always! 

But there is not. They are forgotten, and 
they cannot forget — they remember every- 
thing, both that which is good and that which 
is wicked. 

When I am sad, then a day up here is sure- 
ly as long as one down there. 

I wish that I were able to put the rest of my 
living days in a bag and bring the bag with 
me down into the ground so that I might use 
[ 122 ] 


ANDREA 

them when it became too lonesome . . . then 
I would gladly die to-night, 
t But I can’t save a single hour, not a minute. 

If I only knew that the thoughts die, if I 
only knew it, or that they sleep. If I only 
knew that one could not think and that one 
could not be sad ; but no one knows it, no one, 
no one. 

No one knows it, neither my father nor my 
mother. 

No one. 

I was out in the churchyard, but through 
the rows of flowers, it seemed to me, there 
came such a disgusting odour from the graves. 
There were only two people out there with the 
many hundred dead. They are alone, no one 
has time to be with them. 

I cannot accustom myself to it. 

Father read aloud, and Musser made an 
eggnog, and I was mischievous; for I must 
always be on my guard. 

In two years I may go to Copenhagen and 
[ 123 ] 


ANDREA 

live with Uncle Stephen, and learn to build 
houses. 

It is nice of them to promise it. But it is 
not nice to lie to those who are going to die. 

How they are deceiving me! They play a 
comedy right before my very eyes. 

They deceive me, because I am going to die 
— and I die because they are deceiving me. 

But now I have written to my Grandmother 
Voldby; she is so old that she has surely for- 
gotten how to lie. I must know the truth. 

And now I am so tired. 

I have wagered on a living heart — a living 
heart. 

Mother steals my morphine; every morning 
she tells me how lovely she has slept. 

It will not be long, I think, before I, too, 
shall sleep lovely every night. 

I am so sad ! I am so sad ! 

I tell father I am the happiest little girl in 
[ 124 ] 


ANDREA 

the world. I laugh and joke with him. We 
deceive each other so pleasantly. 

My poor, wretched Musser ! And I do not 
know anything. 

• •»•••*. 

Now, at last, Grandmother Voldby has an- 
swered — and I cannot read a syllable. 

There was nothing more, but the letter lay 
there. 

The mother read : 

Flensborg, August 20, 1895. 

Dear child, dear little Andrea! 

I have had many doubts as to how thy letter should 
be answered ; whether I am in the right to talk with thee 
about thy parents behind their back. 

Whether I should try to tell thee everything in a 
roundabout way, whether I should temper my words 
half with lies and half with truth, or whether I do not 
rather owe it to thy pure mind and thy ease of heart 
to lie altogether. 

But now I have come to the conclusion to tell 
thee the simple truth as I know it. No more and 
no less. 


[ 125 ] 


ANDREA 


I do not know much, nor do I know all, as they did 
not confide in me for many years. 

But old eyes see better in the dark than young ones, 
and I have seen so that I have wept. 

The truth thou shalt know, because it lies so heavily 
on thy mind, as thou thyself writest — otherwise, I 
suppose, thou wouldst not have called upon me now. 

If any one knows thy dear, faithful mother, it is I, 
with whom she was from her third year to the day 
she went from here with her husband. 

Jutta, thy mother, has always cared for him, that I 
saw at once; but I never suspected that he would trou- 
ble himself about her. She was not beautiful in the 
manner of other girls, but he, on the contrary, was so 
fascinating that ladies made court to him. 

Jutta had now set her heart on it that he cared for 
her, and she became very lovely indeed from going 
about with this idea. She tripped about so lightly that 
I did not notice her coming in or going out of the room. 
The old women here on the green said that she had eyes 
like “ God’s Mother and the Queen of Hearts” — this 
pleased her very much, and she smiled and laughed 
constantly. She played me many tricks during those 
days. 

Thou hast surely noticed, my little Andrea, that there 
is a beautiful tone in thy mother’s voice, and that tone 
was a great pleasure to Karsten. He liked to hear her 
[ 126 ] 


ANDREA 

talk, but I do not think he listened so much to what she 
was saying. 

When they met here in the vacations, they were more 
like brother and sister than lovers. 

They said out there on the green (now I live inside 
of the town of Flensborg) that he had met another wo- 
man to whom he had given his heart. 

I have my own reasons for thinking that it was true. 
Jutta heard about it and she took it more to heart than 
she had a right to, as Karsten had made her no 
promise. 

One evening he came unexpectedly. I saw by his 
face that something had gone awry with him. We did 
not talk about what it was, but he wept in my arms. 
Jutta was out, and when she came home and saw him 
she began to cry. That evening they became engaged. 

Now I know further, from her own lips, that she 
questioned Karsten, until he, in his weakness — be- 
cause, I suppose, the wound was still bleeding — al- 
lowed himself to be beguiled into confiding to her every- 
thing about that other woman. But she made him the 
promise that her name, and what he had confided to her, 
should be entirely forgotten and without power between 
them. 

I saw very clearly that Karsten was not in love with 
thy mother; and in order that her life should not be 
spoiled for a momentary fancy, I talked seriously to 
[ 127 ] 


ANDREA 


him and asked him to dissolve the bond before it was 
too late. Better that she should cry a few months than 
for her whole life. 

But thy father assured me. He thought a great deal 
of thy mother, he said; and her voice he could not pos- 
sibly be without, so dear had it become to him. 

So it was not love that caused him to take Jutta for a 
wife; but I always hoped that this, the strongest of all 
passions, might grow up in him. 

The first time I saw them together — it was before 
thou wert born — I understood that Jutta had made a 
mistake. She was not artful, she did not know the 
little charms of coquetry, and I dared not give her rules 
that might serve ten, but which would, perhaps, prove 
the destruction of the eleventh. 

Thy mother lacked the pride of a wife and was not 
clever enough to hide this fault. She was obedient 
to her husband and worshipped him, but she was 
jealous. She belonged to that class of women —who are 
the most numerous — whose only weapons are tears ; 
but those tears were turned into weapons against her- 
self. When she murmured, he became tired and angry ; 
and from that she also learned to talk in anger, she who 
during all the years that she was with me was the very 
soul of gentleness. 

In such moments she reopened the subject which she 
had given her promise never to speak about. 

[ 128 ] 


ANDREA 


Lovable, so lovable was thy mother when she lived 
under my roof; lovable was she in her humility and in- 
nocence when she went away from here; lovable was 
she in her self-sacrifice to me, to him, and to thee. It 
is good for thee to know it. 

But he did not comprehend that she was sacrificing 
anything. His stiff, cold, unbending nature filled her 
with apprehension; she went about in her own home 
like one proscribed, without courage and without a will. 
One moment she begged for his love, and the next she 
upbraided him with unjust accusations. 

Dear little Andrea, little heart’s-child, forgive me if 
I make the tears come. I think thy father is of so cold 
a nature that no person will be able to drive him out of 
that shell of will and pride that surrounds his real ego. 
That which at one time broke something in his heart 
has forever extinguished the love-passion in him. Yes, 
I know very well that towards thee he is different; but 
then thou art not a person outside of him ; thou art a 
part of himself. But now we are talking of thy father 
and mother’s mutual relations. 

She no longer believed in him. How it came about 
I cannot tell, but I suppose she plagued him with 
jealous questions, until he, tired of answering, revenged 
himself simply by keeping quiet. In his silence and 
in his tranquillity she imagined that which made her 
like one beside herself. She pondered many worthless 
[ 129 ] 


ANDREA 


thoughts and sank far below her womanly dignity. 
She spied upon his going out and his coming in, cer- 
tain that he must love another. In her unutterable 
misery she did that which made him despise her. Thy 
poor, lovable, broken-hearted mother ! 

Thou hast no right to judge her for it, but neither 
hast thou any right to judge him. He followed the 
callings of his nature ; she was driven to go contrary to 
hers — no one was more open and single-hearted than 
she. Thy mother had a duplicate made of the key to 
his repository and searched all over to find a sign of his 
faithlessness. 

Had she found something, it would indeed have been 
better; for then they would each have stood with his 
great wrong. But she did not find anything, for 
there was not anything. 

Another woman would probably now have regained 
her peace of mind and remained silent as to what had 
happened, but that she could not. 

She confessed what she had done. But he did not 
forgive her; he became embittered in his heart towards 
her. 

When I saw what irreparable sorrow there was in 
thy house I departed, and sacrificed my love for Jutta, 
for Karsten, and for thee. I have surely shirked my 
responsibility badly; I should have given Jutta a knowl- 
edge of life before I sent her out to live it. Believe me, 
[ 130 ] 


ANDREA 


dear child, the years that have passed since last I saw 
thee, have been long. Every evening and every night, 
it seems to me, I can hear Jutta’s accusing voice; and it 
is full of tears. Hadst thou not existed, little child, 
then I would have used all my authority as opposed to 
Jutta’s lack of will, and would have taken her from the 
place where it was only a degradation and a torture for 
her to remain. 

But to thee, her only child, I will say: “Thou owest 
it to thy parents to give them thy life without any res- 
ervation. Thou canst bring them closer together and 
altogether near in friendship, in the friendship that 
grows with the years and lasts throughout all one’s life. 
Without thee thy father’s existence would be pitiably 
barren ; without thee thy mother’s life would be a curse. 
In thee, despite everything, they are rich. 

I saw them together one time beside thy sick-bed, 
when thou wert a little girl; then they felt as one, and 
their wishes were as one. 

If thou hadst passed away then I think the sorrow 
would have bound them together. But thou became 
well again, the good God be praised; and thou, little 
innocent child, helped to separate them again. Thou 
writest that they both want to have thee; but is there 
any sin in parents thinking they cannot do enough 
for their child ? They will give and give constantly. 
Let it not surprise thee. 

[ 131 ] 


ANDREA 


Now thou callest thyself big and grown-up — and 
Jutta was not much older when she made her choice — 
but, then, thou hast big responsibilities also. 

Every person thinks most about himself until a cer- 
tain age, when he feels himself poor in his own posses- 
sion; and that is Nature’s immutable law. But thou 
art born of a sad and sorrowful mother; her happiness 
lasted not even to thy birth, and therefore a special law 
applies to thee, and also because thy life will not be 
long. 

My Andrea, Jutta’s little girl, if I did not know, and 
if thou hadst not written that thou art reconciled with 
that thought, I would not mention it; but thou sayest 
that it does not pain thee at all and that thou art not 
afraid. 

The sun has surely cast its brightest rays for thee, 
wherever thou hast gone I always hear thee laugh 
with thy sweet laughter, which reminds one of Jutta; 
yes, will you believe it, even in thy long, sad letter I 
found laughter — I heard thee laugh. 

Thy parents do not know that thou suspectest thy 
fate; they know not that thou hast heard it sealed by 
wise physicians — out of goodness thou remainest 
silent. But is it just? I believe it is unjust. 

Thou complainest because thy parents try to keep 
thee from many of the pleasures which thou particular- 
ly wantest to have in a full measure because it is denied 
[ 132 ] 


ANDREA 


thee to live long. But that has its great reason, and I 
will confide it to thee, for thy sake and for theirs. 
Through thy mother’s letters to me there runs the same 
fear and apprehension. They fear that some one may 
become dear to thee, dear to thy heart. Thou hast 
thyself discovered it, but think it is from selfishness, 
because they will not share thee with any one. 

No, my little Andrea, that is not the reason. It is 
thy life they fear for. Thy long sickness and thy pres- 
ent illness make them fearful lest anything come to 
bring thee more pain and suffering than thou already 
hast. And that is why my little girl must not enter 
into wedlock with any man. They ought to have told 
thee long ago, as thou art a wise little girl ; and when, of 
course, thou flittest about with thy girl friends as free 
as little girls of thy age, it seems to me there is no 
danger in making thee acquainted with the truth. And 
then, moreover, thou writest that thou wilt agree to 
everything if thou canst only make thy parents perfectly 
happy. Perfect happiness is not to be theirs, but thou 
canst do much to help, if thou wilt and hast the strength. 

It may happen that thou wilt come to care for a com- 
rade of thine own age — one of thy ball partners — for 
a week or a month, but when thou knowest what thou 
now knowest, it will not be so hard for thee to con- 
quer that feeling and to hide it from thy parents. 

Now the hour is close on twelve, and I, old woman 
[ 133 ] 


ANDREA 


that I am, am wont to go to bed when it is nine o’clock, 
so my letter must needs have an end. We two will 
never torture one another by probing further into what 
has here been made clear. 

In thy beloved mother’s name and for her sake, so 
that with all thy heart thou canst be good to her, I will 
take upon myself the responsibility for the sorrow that 
I am surely causing thee. 

With my best wishes and thanks for the confidence 
thou hast shown thy old friend, 

Inger Voldby. 

P. S. — I hope that, now thou art so big and grown- 
up, thou canst read my old-fashioned Danish writing. 
I cannot quite master the new script, it is so foreign 
to me. 


[ 134 ] 


CHAPTER NINE 


The mother went through the lofty rooms, 
where the plants stood dying, to the room 
where the father sat alone with his sorrow. 

Her white night-dress fell to the ground like 
a shroud. She groped her way in the dark 
with outstretched hands. Her hair had fallen 
down, and her eyes burned. 

As always in the past, she faltered before the 
door to his room. 

He did not hear her enter. 

And she saw him sitting in the deep chair 
under the lamp. As if it were a doll or a liv- 
ing being, as if it were the child herself, there 
lay in his arms the lavender dress, the one that 
was dearer to Andrea than all other dresses. 

Now he looked up. 

[ 135 ] 


ANDREA 


“Jutta.” 

She barely recognized the voice. 

“ What do you want . . . here?” 

She answered by asking: 

“ Are you tired, Karsten ? ” 

He shook his head. 

“ I am tired, that is why I came. I am tired 
unto death, Karsten. And you must help 
me.” 

He arose, and the lavender dress remained 
lying in the chair. 

“Jutta, if I could help you, don’t you think 
I should like to very much ? But no one can 
help you, and no one can help me — rather 
go to bed, my friend, try to sleep. That is 
what the night is for! ” 

His voice had not been so mild since he 
spoke endearing words to Andrea on her 
death-bed. 

“You yourself, Karsten, do not go to bed, 
for you cannot sleep.” 

“No, I cannot sleep, I think . . .” 

[ 136 ] 


ANDREA 

“Karsten, can you forget ? ” 

“ If I could, then I were not myself. I can- 
not.” 

“ Karsten, if I could raise her up from the 
dead, if only for an hour — could you bear to 
look her in the face, could you bear to hear her 
voice, could you bear to hear her weep ? ” 

He grasped her by the wrist. 

“ Jutta, are you sick ? . . . or do you want 
to torture me ? I only ask for peace . . . here 
in my loneliness! ” 

But she looked him in the eyes, and it was 
as if he would sink down under that glance. 

“ In a little while, in a little while you shall 
have peace. You shall be as lonely as you 
wish. In a little while. But you shall see 
Andrea, hear her laugh, hear her weep. After- 
wards, I’ll go — to the one person who has 
forgiveness for me ... to the only person 
who knows what I have suffered in those years, 
in the many, many years! ” 

“Jutta . . . say what you mean; do not 
[ 137 ] 


ANDREA 


talk like one who walks in her sleep. I can- 
not wake you ... I cannot make you happy. 
But what is it ? where will you go to ? ” 

“ Only away from you, who took my child’s 
love, even though she saw how I struggled. 
Only away from you . . .” 

He had covered his eyes with one hand and 
he asked, and there was a dread in his voice : 

“ Don’t you think I am lonesome enough ?” 

But she answered : 

“When two persons are together and are 
lonesome, they will be less lonesome if each 
goes his way! ” 

“ Jutta ... I am very lonesome, now, but 
shall be more lonesome if you leave me!” 

But she wrung her hands. 

“ Why do you hold me back now — now, 
that I have the courage to leave you ? ” 

“Because — I am afraid of the loneliness.” 

But she did not believe him. 

“Is it the people round about here whom I 
visit, and on whose account you scorn me, 
[ 138 ] 


ANDREA 

those upon whom you always cast your con- 
tempt? ... is it they that you are afraid 
of?” 

“People . . . don’t you know me better, 
that you think others are in my thoughts ? ” 

“ Is it out of pity toward me ? . . . then it is 
too late!” 

He looked down at the floor; her eyes also 
were lowered. 

“ Jutta, I have pity on you, because your life 
did not become what it should — and on my- 
self, because I allowed my own to become so 
barren! ” 

“Yours was the fault! ” 

“Ah, yes — that it was, I suppose. But 
why dispute about that now? we two have 
made up our reckoning so often, so cruelly 
often — and what did it profit us ? ” 

“ Yours was the fault ! Does there exist 
a guilt so great that one person has a right to 
refuse another forgiveness?” 

“ Right . . . does one think of that ? ” 
[ 139 ] 


ANDREA 


“ I was a human being of flesh and blood, 
with a thousand desires that cried out to you 
— do you know that ? Did you know that ? ” 
“Jutta . . . it is night now; spare yourself, 
spare me! ” 

“Yes, in a little while I’ll go ; you shall only 
see Andrea and hear her weep — you, whom 
she loved above all! ” 

The mother fetched the blue pamphlets. 
She gave them to him with the words : 
“Unto those who have much, shall much 
be given — from those who have little, shall 
everything be taken away! ” 

The father took the pamphlets and held 
them between his hands as if it were the child’s 
head he were holding. He asked in an uncer- 
tain voice: 

“ Are you going to remain . . . inhere?” 
“ Shall I leave my child ? ” 

Then he was silent and began to read. 

The mother held his face with her eyes. 

She asked : 


[ 140 ] 


ANDREA 

‘‘Can you see Andrea ? ” 

“Can you hear her laugh ? 99 

“Can you hear her weep ? ” 

At last she only asked : 

“ Can you hear her weep ? ” 

He did not answer; he did not know she 
spoke to him. He read. Now and then he 
stopped, passed his hand over his forehead, 
sighed, and went on again. 

“ So little did I know her . . .” 

“ So poor am I,” said the mother. 

“We have tortured her . . .” 

“So poor am I! ” 

“So poor are we, Jutta, that we have tor- 
tured our child in her hour of death! ” 

The mother took his hand. 

“ Karsten, now it is all over. It seems to 
me I no longer have any right. The grave is 
yours, for she loved you above all. Farewell, 
Karsten ! I do not give you thanks — as long 
back as I remember you have never given me 
anything that was worthy of thanks. We shall 
[ 141 ] - 0 


ANDREA 


be lonesome, but less lonesome each by him- 
self than together! 99 

But the father bent down over her. 

“ Remain with me, Jutta — in my poverty. 
Remain with me, Jutta — help me — in my 
loneliness! ” 

She arose. The white night-dress fell to the 
ground like a shroud, and her eyes burned. 

“In poverty . . . in loneliness.” 

“Jutta, we have the grave . . .” 

“Yes, the grave! ” 


THE END 


THE MCCLURE PRESS, NEW YORK 

















































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